Invisible Wings
by conchepcion
Summary: The year is 1963; a new Professor proves to be a furious distraction to all, students and professors alike. One exception being Miss Hooper who intends not to be dreamy about Professor Holmes. Unfortunately enough one cannot always escape ones faith.
1. Prologue

**A/N: **This story is already completed, but it is being edited/betaed. Yes, it is the long awaited Professor-fic that started due to tumblr, and that people wanted more of from the teases in 'Seven'. I would like to thank **AussieMaelstrom** for basically holding my hand throughout the whole thing, and coming with encouraging speeches amidst my turmoil of 'Is there _too_ much smut?'

The answer is always** 'no'**.

This is set during the 1960's, btw.

* * *

**Prologue**

_Your soul is a chosen landscape_  
_Where charming masqueraders and bergamaskers go_  
_Playing the lute and dancing and almost_  
_Sad beneath their fanciful disguises._

_All sing in a minor key_  
_Of victorious love and the opportune life,_  
_They do not seem to believe in their happiness_  
_And their song mingles with the moonlight,_

_With the still moonlight, sad and beautiful,_  
_That sets the birds dreaming in the trees_  
_And the fountains sobbing in ecstasy,_  
_The tall slender fountains among marble statues._

- Paul Verlaine (1869)

Her legs were tucked underneath her, pillows pushed like a tower behind her back, as her ginger cat Toby meowed from the end of the bed.

Ignoring the cat, the young woman narrowed her brown eyes at the pages of her book. All of her attention was drawn to Truman Capote's _In Cold Blood. _Nothing could shake it, not even the morning light shining onto her face, or – her alarm clock, "Oh no – no – _no_ – too soon," she moaned as it went off.

The book was still firmly in her hands when her bedroom door bounced open, and she turned the alarm off with a dark look at her father.

He stood in the doorway with a cup in his hand. The smell of coffee tempted her senses, making her spring up from the bed, as he looked at her with an amused expression, "You didn't sit up too long, did you?" he said knowingly, scratching at his beard.

Molly pressed her lips together, "No," she said, retrieving the cup from his hands, clinging to the heat between her fingertips, and the bitter flavour she could trust.

"It's your last book though."

"It's not my last –_ last_ – book," she said, "Maybe one of the professors actually has-," what was the word she was looking for – "_taste_ this year."

"I don't think they'd actually call ours refined, love. Now get dressed. I can't drive you, got an early start - so you've got to take Stella."

Molly grinned cheekily, "Dad, why do you call inanimate objects – women's na-,"

"Don't be late," he interrupted stonily.

Her heart dropped when she remembered. Not that she could forget, watching the slight tension drift into the shoulders of her father, as he walked away.

"I won't," she said with a small voice, lowering her head slightly, before her eyes were back on her book.

Later on, Molly looked up thinking five minutes had past, and saw that she'd spent thirty instead, so she ran.

* * *

Panting for breath she ran, her heels clicked soundly on the floor of the deserted hallway. For once, she was actually, properly late.

The fact that Mrs Bloom at the reception held out her schedule already, with pursed red lips, her mouth twitching, as Molly gave a breathless, "Thank you," half-tripping through the hallways, reminded her that this had often been the case.

_English 08:15 _

Already she was to be reminded of why she loathed school, despite her accomplishments. Every single work of art or piece of literature was dissected, contemplated to the point of ruin, at least if Ruthers was her Professor.

There was truly a lack of passion in the man, not that she expected any of the professors to be shouting out after _Catherine_ in the moors, or living by Oscar Wilde's standards, but – it wasn't Professor Ruthers name on the schedule.

Instead it was - _S. Holmes._

Molly halted at the shut classroom door, staring at her timetable with a gaping mouth. Ruthers with his dry voice, that went on and on in a monotone fashion, who seemed inclined to be keep his arms glued at his sides – wasn't her English Professor this year.

If she hadn't been so absolutely taken back, she would have noticed the door had opened almost silently, only the discernable creak giving it away.

Brown eyes met an indeterminable blue-green hue.

Gasping, she stared at the unfamiliar face of her new Professor. He wasn't at all similar to the ashen face of Ruthers.

His face was pale with high cheekbones, fascinating eyes, and dark curled hair that fell gracefully onto his forehead, as if placed there by a tentative hand.

Whatever his age was, he was certainly younger than Ruthers, though his eyes spoke volumes enough on their own. They were by far more intelligent. A compliment she'd never paid anyone, but she felt - by the hurried glance he'd given her – that he knew everything.

Even worse, he had seen her, and found her _lacking. _

She felt a jolt in her stomach - hard - and at present difficult to understand, his narrowed stare made the hairs on her neck stand on end.

Truly only seconds had passed, yet it felt to her like years had gone by when he finally stepped aside. His attention was drawn to the book in his hand, a bored expression on his face as he said, "Miss Hooper, I presume."

His voice was deep, the sort of voice one wished to hear reading poetry – a voice that truly belonged to the stage, as it reached every corner of the silent classroom with ease.

Several laughed, not that she was unfamiliar to that, when she past him. Eyes flickered towards her, as she with her hastily reddening cheeks was trying to find an available seat, preferably at the back, but the second her eyes caught one, "I've saved you one," he said.

Whipping her head towards him, she saw his hand absentmindedly gesture towards a seat straight at the front, with a book perched on the top.

Her heart dropped, her cheeks unable to push down the blush of shame in her face, as she settled down in the seat. Of course now she could never choose one in the back without giving the impression that she was terrified of him.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said hurriedly, keeping her eyes on her desk, having to listen to the stifled giggling around her.

She wasn't the only one with red cheeks by the look of it, though theirs were obviously not due to embarrassment. The fact that he didn't seem at all angry with her made her nervous.

He was so unlike Ruthers that it threw her off.

There was also something in his movement that was different, without even saying anything the man dominated the room, even when his eyes weren't fixed on the students.

His shoulders weren't burdened with a slightly tattered suit.

Instead he wore a simple white shirt, which was tailored, with a dark blue tie, and a pair of grey trousers. He seemed casual, yet not at all.

It was perhaps the manner he held himself, with a straight back, and his silence that made the class obedient. Usually they'd be loud, arguing with rebellion on their minds, whenever a new inexperienced Professor came around.

"Sir," he said, making her blink.

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm sorry, _sir."_

"Sorry, sir," she said shifting awkwardly in her seat, settling her tatty leather rucksack on the floor.

"Page 23, please – Miss Hooper," he said, making her rifle through the pages of her book, "My name is Sherlock Holmes – I am taking over for Professor Ruthers – if you hadn't been occupied with reading during breakfast – you would have known this about five minutes ago."

Her hands froze on the pages of her book, catching his eyes that turned to her, before he directed his attentions yet again to his pages, "Shall we begin?" he said.

Confused, she nodded with the rest of the class, who he was surveying with a piercing stare. He looked like he was expecting to be challenged, though no one said a word. After a few seconds, he finally spoke, "John Keats."

"What do you know about him?" he continued, his hand jerking towards one of the pupils whose hand shot up.

"He was a poet, sir," said a boy named Rupert Stark proudly, puffing his chest out, as he looked round the class significantly.

Professor Holmes did not look impressed, his brows furrowing ever so slightly, "A text book answer, Mr Stark – which can be read from the first line of his short biography on this page alone – anyone else?" His eyes yet again turned to the class, but this time fewer hands were thrown up - none in fact.

Molly swallowed in surprise.

Ruthers had a tendency of being rude to the point of insolent, but obviously he was _soft_ compared to some. Somehow, despite herself she raised her hand gingerly. Professor Holmes' eyes were instantly on her, "Sir, the class hasn't read up on him yet," she said carefully.

"Are you apologising for Mr Stark's ignorance, Miss Hooper?" he said dryly.

Everyone around her was stunned; there was a general intake of breath. "No - _sir_ – but – you asked what we know about him. Not everyone knows more than that about John Keats." Not only was she tardy, she was challenging his methods, however rude they were. It was certainly out of character for her.

"Do you, Miss Hooper?" he said.

Rupert almost seemed grateful in the distance, while she drew for breath without even eyeing the page before her, "He's one of the romantics, but he wasn't valued when he was alive, sir, as most poets were at the time. He used a bit more – err – sensual imagery than the rest of them – most notably his ode-,"

"To a nightingale," he finished for her, "You have read him?"

He was looking at her with interest.

"I wanted to read him before he got ruined," she said without thinking, and the tension that had filled the class dissolved with laughter.

Surprisingly enough even Professor Holmes chuckled, his deep voice resonating in the classroom, "Do call me_ sir,_ Miss Hooper – however, she is right – now – would anyone care to read the ode, or shall I?" he said directing his attention to the class, much more enthusiastically, as if there was still hope for them anyway.

But no one raised their hand; Molly turned round to several in disbelief, and saw some of the girls whispering (they were plainly hoping the Professor would), "Fine," said Professor Holmes, "Mr Stark – read the next page."

Their hopes were dashed the second Rupert cleared his throat, as he hesitantly began, "My heart - aches, and a drows-s-s-y numbness pains my senses, as though of hem-lock - I have – had - drunk."

It was torture, hearing him butcher the lines, and she dared a look at Professor Holmes. His face was unreadable, though she perceived the visible frustration in his eyes. Still, he did not say anything amiss when Rupert finished, except thanking him for his efforts.

Soon enough they were put to the task of discerning their own interpretation of the poet's words, but he also gave them schoolwork (not wholly unexpected), "Two paragraphs on John Keats, _except_ – Miss Hooper."

Molly who'd been deep in thought, with her notebook splattered with ink before her, looked up, "You will write me a two page essay on his life's work – a punishment – for your tardiness." She didn't argue with him, only giving a slight nod, as she saw others groaning for her sake.

When she turned in her essay – it was four pages, not two.

* * *

_**Enigma:**__ One that is puzzling, ambiguous, or inexplicable. _

Professor Holmes wasn't found habitually lounged in doors smoking with the other professors during his free periods, though he did smell of pipe tobacco when returning to class.

No one knew where he took his lunch, until a Mr Andrews and Miss Baxter were trying to find a quiet place on the roof, only to receive a detention instead for _indecent_ behaviour.

Unlike the other professors, he didn't indulge in social behaviour, even if some of the female professors were intent on seeking him out for such, though by the gossip that tore through the school it was certainly not about school matters.

Molly found herself increasingly distracted by the mutterings that went on, despite her prejudice towards that. The professors' private lives were, in fact, none of their business – but she too couldn't pretend that the man didn't fascinate her.

After receiving almost full marks with the note – _Two pages would have been sufficient - _on her essay, she found herself amused, though intrigued by him.

Not much was known about him. Of the things talked about, the man himself hadn't confirmed any of it. According to some he had worked at a private school, travelled abroad after that, and was doing this as a favour for his brother.

His brother was apparently a friend of Ruthers, so in some ways it made sense, though Molly felt bothered by it.

Holmes' teachings were certainly unorthodox, often he'd let himself get distracted, and encouraged the pupils to discuss the pages they read thoroughly, instead of pushing his own beliefs at them.

He seemed to like them to think for themselves - _make their own deductions_ – it breathed life into the class, making them feel invigorated the minute they left him (though on occasions he would call them idiots if they came with an opinion based fully on emotions instead of facts).

But she didn't feel he was entirely truthful with them, despite the fact that he had said nothing on the subject of himself – he was like a tightly wound lie in her eyes.

Every time anyone came late to his class, he would know what they had done to earn their tardiness, which was disconcerting.

It was even worse when he didn't care to explain _how_ he did it, giving them a baleful look if they attempted to broach the topic, but in the end no one dared to be late.

Holmes was clever, calculatedly cold on occasion, and by all means the most interesting professor they'd ever had, by the fact that no one knew anything about him. It took three weeks before anyone knew he had a_ friend_ – a short sandy-haired man with spectacles who appeared at his side, both of them having a whispered conversation, until the man left the grounds, and wasn't seen again.

In short, the professor was a mystery, but she never expected it was she who would figure him out.


	2. Curious

**Curious: **Eager to learn more: _curious investigators; a trapdoor that made me curious._

* * *

She left _Stella_ on the school grounds, intending to leave earlier the next morning instead of having to hurry on the light-blue bicycle that often rode her in late. Relying too heavily on the bike had given her the disadvantage of assuming she'd be on time, which wasn't often the case.

Like every Wednesday, she'd be going to her granny's after school, which required a ride on the tube. Somehow doing that seemed _exotic_ in a way. It was the most travel she'd done in her life, and it upset her knowing this might be the most she'd do.

There weren't many options for her in the future; she knew that too well, as her family wasn't rich, though her father had put her in a school that was of better quality than he really could afford.

She'd argued against it, though he wanted the very best for her and constantly assured her they would get by. Unable to argue against him properly, she tried to scrounge some money from her rather horrid granny, who enjoyed having her on visits just so she'd read dismal passages from her grubby leathery books, that all spewed about the sanctity of marriage and the purity in a woman.

The fact was, her grandmother _Anna Geier_ was a rude old woman with a vicious little poodle called Melville of all names, but was horribly rich. She indulged in keeping her money in her family. However, the second Molly's mother had married Harry Hooper, instead of the proposed plan of some ostentatious, snooty-minded individual, all her serene composure had dropped.

Molly's mother, Elizabeth, had been prideful enough on her own to drop all contact with the woman, but Molly kept it up, due to careful prodding from her then living grandfather – _Frederic_ – who was very sweet.

Somehow, despite herself, she'd grown fond of the woman in a way that her father deemed wasn't possible, "Don't let her make you believe she'll give you anything."

Her granny never brushed the topic of money really, except slip notes into the book she wanted Molly to borrow to cleanse her mind. Being frightfully religious, the woman kept up appearances by going to church every Sunday, which Molly on occasion attended with her, as the woman was unable to get far on her own.

She knew that the woman taking care of her wasn't exactly happy to be in her granny's presence either, so she let her have a day off. "Granny-watch," her dad would call it.

Now here she was on the train, heading to her granny's house intending to spend her precious reading time with a woman who didn't exactly radiate affection towards her - but she suspected that in the woman's strange way – reading sermons aloud _was_ affection.

Molly pursed her lips, awaiting the station-call, when she caught sight of one of the passengers. Blanching in her seat, she hunched her shoulders slightly, trying to seem insignificant, as she slowly returned her eyes to the sight before her.

It was Professor Holmes, wearing a tweed jacket and an expression of severe distaste, while holding a leather suitcase in his hand.

Molly was all surprise, considering the fact that she never knew he was the sort of man who'd take the tube, as she usually saw him dash away from the school grounds in a black Aston Martin.

Rumours were aflutter at the school, all were quite certain he was well-endowed, though she suspected that they deliberately meant something entirely different, but she'd rather not think about_ that_.

His blue eyes were flitting to the watch on his wrist, his brows furrowing, until he gave a sigh, and suddenly saw her.

Startled she turned her head, bowing it down to her lap, and started to fidget with her uniform, quickly pulling at the skirt.

It was one thing to be observing him in the classroom, but she didn't want him to think she was one of those who felt inclined to bat her eyelashes at him. Quite the contrary, she admired him, of course, but –

"Miss Hooper," said his familiar baritone voice.

Colour flooded her cheeks, as she looked up, "Oh, err – sorry – sir."

"What exactly are you apologising for Miss Hooper? Or, are you warning me ahead of time that you will not be punctual tomorrow?" He looked amused for once, which made her feel out of sorts.

"No, no, not at all, sir," she said wide-eyed, entirely unsure of how to deal with the situation.

"No need to call me sir, Miss Hooper."

She was about to open her mouth to respond, however the train had stopped, "I believe this is your stop," he said with a raised brow, at which she sprinted out, spewing forth a flurry of apologies towards him.

Relief came to her the instance she was out of the train and away from him. He did make her terribly nervous, even more so than her granny did.

* * *

"You look particularly flushed today – you didn't run here?" asked her granny with a beady eye.

"No," said Molly quickly.

Her granny scoffed loudly, "Lying, are you?"

"No," said Molly a bit slower, sitting in the stiff embroidered chair that was only a semblance of softness, but felt as if she was sitting on pins and needles.

Melville was barking at the window, snarling at passers by, "Oh, he's excited today, aren't you little Mel?" said her granny with a sweetened voice.

Molly was quite sure that if her granny did ever pass away, it was rather likely that she would leave everything to the curly old mess that she brought to her lap, "Now begin, I haven't got all day."

Exhaling, Molly opened the heavy book on her lap, feeling it weigh down her thighs, as she turned the pages to where they'd left off.

* * *

Remarkably enough, the unexpected chance meeting with Professor Holmes turned habitual, with her trying not to meet his eye in the hope that he might not speak to her. She'd been raising her hand less in class, though he pointed her out often enough regardless, so it was a futile attempt of behaving normal.

If she were entirely honest with herself she knew why she was trying to _avoid_ him, unlike the others in her year who followed him around on the school grounds giggling soundly.

She didn't feel inclined to be seen as vapid.

He was constantly throwing acid remarks to them who dared, with such passionate conviction, but that seemed to only fuel the fire.

It powered other assumptions as well that she didn't dare brush upon, for several of the lads had been very adamant with their opinion about that – "Not my area," was Professor Holmes' final comment on the subject, when it was brought up in class to everyone's bated breath.

"Not your area, sir?" said one of the lads, causing others to snigger.

Professor Holmes frowned, "No."

No one seemed to back away, even after that statement, and Molly subsequently assumed that if he were at all open about his personal life they'd desist. Yet, she could see the flaw to this logic, as it was apparent that his legend had gone too far now after two months as a Professor. Whatever he'd say now would be easily forgotten.

The following Wednesday, she sat in the tube with him for company again. Not that they were speaking, or that she tried to do anything but remain unseen. Despite stating to herself repeatedly that he wasn't handsome, she sat observing him, with a book shielding her face.

He made her wonder really, that was all, nothing other than that, as she couldn't deny that she wasn't curious about his private – "Your book is upside down, Miss Hooper."

Holmes always seemed to manage to catch her unawares, despite the fact that her eyes had been trained on him seconds ago. She jolted upwards in her seat, feeling a nervous laugh catching in her throat, "It's supposed to be read like that," she said quickly. Though she still turned the book upright in her hands.

His blue eyes were upon her, twinkling in the pleasant way she only saw outside class, "Indeed."

She clamped shut the copy of_ 'Emma'_, distracting herself by toying with her ponytail, "I was a bit – preoccupied."

"I'm sure the young man is enjoying your musings," he said with a sigh, returning his attention to a book in his hands - _The Crimes of Love_ by Marquis De Sade.

Her eyes stayed on him, though he did not look up, avoiding her eyes entirely.

* * *

"Molly," barked her granny, "You've read that passage twice already!" The fact that she had repeated herself surprised her, let alone that the woman had noticed.

"Oh, sorry."

She continued on, her voice less loud than usual.

"Speak up! I detest mumbling."

"Right, right, sorry."

Molly tried yet again, "Stop!" said her granny, quite forcefully, and she felt like chucking the book at the woman's face, "If you do not intend to do it well, then you don't need to do it at all."

"Ok," said Molly standing up from her seat, seeing the flabbergasted face of her granny, before she turned away, letting the tome of a book slip to the floor.

* * *

Instead of taking the tube back, Molly found herself walking home, a thing she knew her dad disliked, but she felt like walking. Clearing her head amidst her walk, she felt guilt churn in her stomach, as she knew her granny would now be out of sorts, probably ringing her dad immediately after she left.

He was most likely anxious and she didn't want him to be. She just needed a moment to herself, since she wasn't ever really alone to contemplate anything, and it bothered her.

But she was absolutely troubled by the fact that _he_ was invading her thoughts. It felt rather sudden, when instead of speaking to her he'd taken up a book, but then again it didn't need to signify anything. Holmes was perhaps tired of talking with her, and she was certain that she wasn't particularly poised for any conversation outside of lessons.

* * *

Her hand was up now, almost bristling in her seat, her arm straining at the pressure, as he seemed to wilfully ignore her, "Anyone?" he repeated, eyes to the book, looking extremely bored of them all.

One of the boys– William Mumford's hand rose up, "Mumford," said Professor Holmes with his lips pressed together.

"Err – sir – I think – actually that Hooper has got the answer – she's been holding her arm up for about a minute?" he said shrinking slightly in his seat, as the class started to laugh.

Depending on the shocked expression on his face, he hadn't expected that to happen, and Molly let her hand drop with finality, giving to study her book instead.

"_Hooper_," said Professor Holmes, causing Molly's brows to connect, as he mimicked Mumford's speech.

She drew back her shoulders slightly, "I – I -," she started, realising she'd managed to forget what she was about to say.

"Obviously, _Hooper_ doesn't _remember_ -," He wasn't even going to let her try, "Let's move on shall we?" he said, though it was obviously not even a question.

* * *

What little admiration she had for him ceased with his humiliating mockery of her in class. Despite the fact that it all contradicted with the marks he gave her, which were full. Tiny commentaries cluttered her essays, with much more clear writing instead of his regular cluttered heap, but the comments - "Brilliant!" and "Amazing work." made her even more puzzled.

He had certainly outdone himself in the terms of creating an enigma, for those who spoke the loudest in class, didn't have such luck in their essays, and she almost thought he didn't recognise her name on the papers, but he'd still drop them wordlessly on the desk he'd assigned her. At first she assumed she'd have to be wary, though her grades did not shift in the slightest way, if any – his class was her best.

Granny did indeed forgive her for her inappropriate behaviour, chuckling slightly to herself, "It's a boy, then," she said out of the blue, causing Molly to almost drop the book in her hands in shock.

"What?"

"It is, then? Well…at least be sure he's not an imbecile."

Her grandmother did not breathe another word about the subject, taking to stroke Melville fondly, like she was remembering something.

* * *

Encounters with him now were spent in silence, with him busying himself with one of his _obscure_ books, that she suspected weren't on loan from the library (she'd checked).

Every copy of his seemed worn; she assumed they were from his personal library. Holmes most likely had a vast collection too, considering his knowledge, though she'd heard rumours that he'd spoken to one of the science teachers, who'd chortled, when Holmes was unfamiliar with the location of the planets, "Apparently – he _deleted_ the information!" Professor Cadbury told the class who were enraptured at the sudden change of tone from the otherwise repetitious Professor.

It was one afternoon, darkened by the overcast sky that she was unshackling _Stella_, when she caught the bashful stare of Mumford who'd attempted to be her rescuer in class, "Hello," he said in a small voice, standing by his own bicycle.

Blinking at him, she frowned slightly, "Hello," she said in return, loosening the bounds on her bike until she had a hold on the handlebars, half-climbing on it.

He'd never spoken to her in private before.

"I was wondering-," he said behind her back, and she turned round to see him rifling his hand through his hair, "You're – you're quite clever, you know."

"Err – thank you-,"

"I mean, in class, that is, since, obviously – you're the best – you wouldn't – have any tips on writing?"

Molly found herself internally sighing. _Of course_, she'd been through this before… Another classmate was asking her for help, which would end with her writing essays for him. She frowned slightly, pursing her lips, until she said, "Reading, that helps."

Mumford looked rather disappointed at that, "Right, of course, silly of me," and then he rode off, though she was more put out by the sudden commentary that slid unexpectedly from the corner of the mouth of Professor Holmes, who past by, "Perhaps you should avoid all romantic entanglements Miss Hooper, as you seem adequate at sending suitors off on your own."

In the end, she understood and felt terrible.

By some odd coincidence, Mumford's marks on his essays did improve, but the looks he threw her did not.

Professor Holmes acted normally once more in class, at least for her that was, as he now seemed keen to listen to her instead of brushing her off. This was how Mumford's marks became known to her, when Professor Holmes read the impressive story that, "Mr Mumford has spun, though it clearly indicates a stung ego, but it is better than the infested romantic dribble you threw out previously– about a girl with _golden_ _eyes_." Most of the boys were laughing, though Molly's laugh stayed in her throat, as Mumford threw her a withering look.

Professor Holmes' legible commentaries on her essays suddenly reverted to the mess he'd started out with, though the phrases were the same, though less – amazed.

* * *

Despite Professor Holmes' altered state, he still didn't seem inclined to speak with her during their shared journeys, and she kept to her own books, only briefly looking up to read the new title he was carrying with him.

Her curiosity hadn't dissolved despite her previous frustration with him; neither did she feel like pretending that she wasn't either. Eying him once and again wasn't exactly illegal, and he wasn't unused to it, she supposed. After all – she was only curious about the book, though perhaps she shouldn't have looked so closely.

For it was one tube ride when he stood up before her, slipped a book out of his briefcase, unceremoniously dropped it on top of her lap and left.

Startled she glanced around her, to see that no one had taken note, before staring onto the familiar cover of _The Crimes of Love_ by Marquis De Sade.


	3. Hesitation

**Hesitation: **the act of hesitating; a delay due to uncertainty or fear.

* * *

It was forbidden in some countries, too vulgar to be considered literature, and universally hated by some. Such a book she would never suspect he would read, or even own for that matter. Every passage was dramatic, full of life, of truths and by all means – absolutely erotic.

Her professor, she could agree, was rather dramatic in his affairs around the classroom, but she never expected him to hand her such a book. There was even a simple instruction included, which she would not hesitate to follow – _read it_.

Nothing else was written upon the piece of parchment except those hastily written words. Molly soon found herself entirely wrapped up in the book, settled underneath her covers with Toby trying to adjust himself comfortably on her knees.

Every short story was slightly disconcerting, though she couldn't find the will to put it down, "Good book?" said her dad from the open door of her bedroom.

Molly pulled on her duvet, so the title was obscured, "Oh, yes – a series of short stories," she said, "_French_."

His eyes glazed over slightly, "Don't stay up too late, though."

He'd never been a fan of foreign authors, and for that she was grateful, but it was impossible he hadn't heard of Marquis De Sade.

"I won't," she said all-too cheerily.

He whispered a soft 'goodnight' after that, giving her a pointed stare, which made her rest properly on her pillows to give him the impression she would sleep soon.

It wasn't until she heard his bedroom door snap shut, that she sprang up to lock her own, resolving to keep it closed for the future.

Toby looked at her with a murderous expression, meowing loudly at the lack of warmth from her legs, and she soon held him in her arms, feeling his fluffy ginger hair tickle her chin, "Toby, this is our secret alright?"

* * *

Molly didn't have many to share said secret with, not that she didn't have friends, though they were more people she was inclined to spend her free periods with rather than discuss books, as they didn't feel as passionate as she did.

There was nothing wrong with that.

She had enough of amusing discussions with her father who delved more into crime-novels, and old war-novels, than anything else. Her mother was better at knowing her Austen, Bronte and Dickens. It was she who'd introduced her to the written word, and subsequently she'd even taught her father to read properly.

That was how Harry and _Lizzie _had met, with a mutual fondness for books, and Molly herself loved them to bits. Any book really, perusing even the books her father adored, but she truly enjoyed writing.

The written word had so many alluring things to it, there were so many things one could say openly, and then avoid saying, and that was fascinating.

In her hands there would be a copy of a story written long ago, written down by someone sitting by low candlelight, or on a typewriter in broad daylight, putting down their own thoughts about the world.

These words made their thoughts - their ideas – live on _forever_, at least every time someone picked up their book.

She wrote, but silly things really.

Molly was wretched thinking of what she'd penned when her mother had died in the accident. Once she'd believed in God, in faith, but all that was torn away by a slippery road and a pair of glasses that had fallen from the drivers face.

Misfortune had struck, and it took months before her father had managed to speak out loud without weeping openly. In this she had to be the strong one, just as her mother had been, constantly reminding her father that there was still hope, though she barely believed it herself.

Her miserable little piece had been printed somewhere, though she never told her father, keeping the magazine tucked away safely in her night-drawer with no intention of ever showing it to him.

Apparently it had been so good, it was printed in several other religious magazines outside the country. Her heart had been a heavy burden, and that was how she managed to remove the pain – with words, which she wasn't supposed to have.

Now new words, strange and foreign, were before her. Enticing in ways she could not comprehend, for here was a piece of Professor Holmes' private life, and she knew not how to cope with it other than read on.

She could imagine seeing him sitting in his home, idly pushing the pages aside, his face marred with concentration, and his back poised. Unconsciously she straightened her back without thought, digging into the pillows behind her, as she soaked up the pages with surprising ease. Somehow it felt like these words were for her, like he had given a part of himself away, and that roused a pleasant feeling in her stomach.

* * *

Conversations flourished around her, other pupils chatting happily amongst themselves, while she hesitantly packed her books.

Her eyes would turn towards him every now and then.

Professor Holmes had not look like a man who'd borrowed her a book, seeming unaffected by their exchange, unlike her, who turned flustered at the very sight of him.

Opening the book had opened another pathway to his mind, which she was sure no one else was truly familiar with. The book was rude, grim and of course she finished it the night before. She wondered if _this_ was he, if he identified himself with these words, and the idea barely made her able to swallow.

Molly was stood in the classroom, trying to slow her pace, as she waited until the room was emptied enough. When it was, she quickly took to her feet, silently bringing the book forth and easing it onto his desk.

She whispered a low, "Thank you," intending to have a quick get-away, as she didn't exactly know what to say about the book.

"Finished already?" he drawled from behind his desk, a brow turned upwards, but he did not look up at her.

She stopped in her step, turning to give him a nod.

"Do try to get some sleep, Miss Hooper," he said.

He probably noticed the prominent dark marks underneath her eyes, for her father had remarked upon them. Molly gave another nod, almost unable to speak, before she scurried off nearly stumbling onto people in the hallway.

No one seemed to notice her odd behaviour, probably assuming that their brief conversation was about school, and she did not hasten to correct their thoughts.

Beyond that, he didn't do anything remotely bizarre in class. He did not allude to the book either, like she supposed. She half-expected him to drop another book on her desk, or enquire her for a five paged-essay on her feelings about Marquis de Sade, who was a peculiar man in his own right.

If the borrowing of said book was done in the open, then it wouldn't be any stranger than anything else he's done, though she highly suspected that the other girls would perhaps want to be in the _club._ Molly knew, however, that if anyone knew about the rather lurid book he'd given her – none would approve.

Neither did she feel like breaching the topic loudly to anyone, as somehow she was certain no one would believe her.

* * *

Holmes' shorter friend appeared yet again that week, to everyone's surprise. He didn't seem bothered that pupils stood gaping in the distance, especially when the pair off them drove off right before class. His classes were soon taken over by Miss Clarington, who wore an all-too tender smile on her face.

"Obviously – she fancies him. They're probably…" Molly left, not wishing to hear the rest of the story, though she was curious to know where Professor Holmes had taken off to.

Several tales were of course conjured up for the occasion; whether any of them were true she wasn't to be the judge of, but she tried to keep her mind off it to no avail.

Fortunately, the weekend came, and she hoped that she would be distracted enough by her old childhood friend Susan. She only ended up realising that they'd grown apart by the way their conversations often stilled. The small pauses would make her mind wander too often, and it certainly did not help when Susan asked if Molly liked any of the boys at her school.

Her hands almost trembled, spots of pink appearing in her cheeks, but she did not divulge her secret, despite Susan's pestering. Concluding the whole discussion with a brief shrug, "No, not really."

There was after all no secret to tell.

* * *

His frustration with the class was evident, by the way he threw out several hurtful remarks to those who questioned him, as well as his harsh strides across the room, but it was soon evident that the lesson could not continue without the subject being addressed.

"Will you shut up about the topic if I answer your questions?" The entire classroom stilled, everyone on the edge of their seats, some of the boys even leaning forward, as Professor Holmes looked at them all with raised brows, "Fine."

He snapped the book in his hand shut, "On occasion, I assist Scotland Yard." Holmes seemed to assume this was enough, though loud voices filled the room and he barked, "Silence – hands up if you are so nosy!"

Hands shot up desperately seeking his attention. Professor Holmes pointed at one of the lads who with hurried breath said, "Assist them in what – English literature, sir?"

Holmes snorted, "No – I help them when they are out of their depth."

"In cases?" said another girl.

"Hand!"

The girl brought up her hand, "In cases, sir?"

He drew his hand through his dark curls, "No, miss Edwards, I advice them in the finer points of Dickens. _Of course_ _in cases_! I was merely steering them in the right direction, with the help of Doctor John Watson. Now – shall we begin?"

It took several minutes until the class was entirely settled, though Holmes did not seem _too_ displeased when asked to relate the case at hand, which was surprisingly grotesque.

"Amazing!" was repeated several times during his tale by baffled classmates, which brought forth a genuinely pleased expression on their professor's face.

"John would say the same," said Holmes, startling them all more with his familiar tone.

* * *

Craning her neck she entered, brown eyes fluttering towards any of the men occupying the tube. His familiar figure seemed to be missing, as she settled down in an available seat with her legs pressed together. Molly gave up looking, insisting to herself that her journey was not about seeing him after all. None of this was for his benefit, but for her grandmother.

Propping up a book she'd borrowed from the library, she adjusted her gaze to the pages. Suddenly her arm jostled as the woman who'd sat besides her on her left stood up, and she found herself frowning when a man occupied the seat, somehow managing to brush the side of her thigh with his briefcase.

She looked up in annoyance, only to find a familiar face, which quickly made her throw her eyes back down to the pages of her book. "Miss Hooper," said Professor Holmes, the corner of his mouth turning upwards.

She cleared her throat slightly, feeling the side of her thigh tingle with the knowledge that he'd grazed her, even if it was just his briefcase. Her skin was assuredly reddening, her lips parting slightly, as she avoided looking at him, "Sir," she said feeling her hands tremble against the book.

She had seen him repeatedly in class, but their meetings outside of class bore a different air. He seemed less stifled (if that was even possible), and her more nervous. Molly did not understand why she should be tense, as he was just her professor.

Feeling observed, she looked out of the corner of her eye, seeing him unabashedly stare at her. He looked puzzled, though when he saw her catching him in the act, he quickly spoke.

"I gathered you enjoyed the read, then?" he said conversationally.

"Yes," she said shutting her book.

She kept the book on her lap, allowing her hands to hold on to it, as she knew not where else to put them, "Though – I don't think it would be on the syllabus, sir." She murmured the last sentence, eyes now on him, though she kept her face to the front. No one seemed to care about their exchange, mostly keeping to themselves, but she felt like being careful. Not that she understood why she felt like that either.

"Obviously," he said, opening the hatches of his briefcase.

Amidst the various papers, files, and what seemed to be – tobacco ash – he brought out another book – _Story of my life_ by Giacomo Casanova.

This she certainly wasn't unfamiliar with, quite the contrary.

He held it out with his long fingers, his face all innocence, while she stared. She had not expected another book. It took her a few seconds before she took it out of his hands, briefly touching his soft fingers at the exchange.

She withdrew with the book, staring at the worn cover, until he yet again reminded her, "Your stop."

When she was stood on the station, she marvelled over the curious tingles that caressed her fingertips and felt ridiculous.

* * *

"Tell me about the boy," howled her grandmother, while Molly was mid-sentence, looking up in shock.

"What?" she said, almost dropping the book in her hands.

Her grandmother hadn't brought up the subject since her dramatic exit last time, and she had rather hoped she wouldn't. There was no _boy, _certainly no man either – cluttering her thoughts, occupying her rucksack with his borrowed literature, for whatever intent or purpose he was employing.

"Not _what_ – pardon, Molly," said granny with one eye narrowed in suspicion, as Molly allowed the book to fall onto her lap.

"There is no boy."

"You sound bored."

Reading sermons wasn't exactly her idea of an amusing pastime to be entirely frank, as the passages were dismal with no respite found in the text, "I'm – I'm just tired, gran – I'm sorry."

The old woman tutted loudly, stomping her cane on the floor, making the mass of carpet on her lap scurry downwards, reappearing by the window barking – most likely intent to scare passing people, "What is his name?"

Molly gaped, though she quickly shut her mouth, "Honestly, granny – there is no boy."

"What is his name?" she repeated.

Giving to sigh, "Are you tired?" Molly said, wishing to distract her, even yawning all too loudly for effect.

"No, and you most certainly are not – so tell me – who is distracting you-,"

"No one!" she said, and that was the truth. The professor was her professor, and he was not driving her to distraction whatsoever, "There is no one, absolutely no one."

Her grandmother looked at her all-too knowingly, until she gave a brief nod, "Continue then, if you're so certain."

* * *

She ran most of the pathway home, drenched in sweat when she got there, swallowing her dinner at top-speed. Her father had only chortled at her, "Keen, are we?" he said.

Abruptly she dropped the fork in her hand, picking it up to slow her movements, "No," she said with a low voice, distracting him with a question about his work.

The second she got underneath her covers, with Casanova in her lap, her hands ready to embark on another curious literary journey - she froze.

Slowly she shut the cover of the book, holding it firmly in her hands, seeing quite clearly in her head his long fingers that previously held it. Leaning back into her pillows, she stared up at her ceiling, feeling the heavy weight in her stomach take place, as she now swallowed the truth.

It was true, there was a boy, but he was no _boy_. She had become one of the girls she disliked, who mooned over her professor. She did not wish to moon, did not wish to romanticise about the man, since obviously he was just giving her literature her father would certainly not obtain for her.

These were not books she could easily ask for from the library, quite the contrary, as surely that would end in humiliation.

The – _why_ – lingered in her mind.

Why on earth would he give her these books? There were so many other splendid books to procure, to seek out, and she did, of course. Why didn't he hand her a list of recommendations instead? Why was he handing her books from his own personal library?

Fondling the hard cover, she stared; knowing that he'd selected it for her, brought it down from his shelf, and had given it to her for her to take. "Oh Toby," she moaned, clutching the book to her chest in sorrow over the way her stomach stirred.

He had awoken something within her, which she was not sure she wished to be kindled. In the end, amidst the light from her lamp, she did not fight against it, allowing herself to give in, even if she was certain nothing would come from it.

* * *

She'd always been impressed by his presence, the way he'd enrapture the class with his passionate speeches, his blue eyes flickering over them to see if they paid attention, as they did today. He looked different, but perhaps it wasn't he who had changed.

Breathing around him was difficult, so was it to pack _Casanova _in her rucksack in resignation over finishing it. She swallowed each word quickly, her eyes lingering all too long on pieces where Casanova described his _conquests._

This was mild compared to the previous book, a fact she almost giggled at. Regardless, its lack of sordid detail, it still kept her toes bent underneath her covers.

Holmes stilled all of a sudden, "Romance! No subject has enraptured and eluded literature – we have Shakespeare – we have Keats – our classics spinning every word, some of it dry - dull, but then there is Lord Byron," his brow was raised – "His were known as more _literate _('uncertain laughter sounded in the classroom'), though we are not exploring his unfinished _Don Juan, _no. Turn to page – 130."

"This is – _She walks in beauty_ -," he said, and several in the class seemed to shrink in their seats, while her chin only rested in the palm of her hand.

Holmes' eyes turned to her, then flicked to the page, "She walks in beauty-," he started in his voice, deep, almost filling the entire room.

A few of her classmates straightened up in their seats in surprise, her hand dropped from under her chin, as she with parted lips stared at the professor's mouth, " – like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies. And all that's best of dark and bright. Meet in her aspect and her eyes."

He paused.

Looking upwards, she swore his eyes were upon her, until they wavered. Holmes didn't need the book in his hand; closing and holding it shut behind his back, "Thus mellow'd to that tender light, which heaven to gaudy day denies."

Continuing in his stride, he spoke assuredly, and she felt her heart pounding foolishly in her chest, "One shade the more, one ray the less, had half impaired the nameless grace." He gave a wry smile, "Which waves in every raven tress, or softly lightens o'er her face, where thoughts serenely sweet express, how pure, how dear their dwelling-place."

He stopped in front of them now, standing in the middle, imperiously, "And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, so soft – so calm – yet eloquent – the smiles that win," he paused yet again, a soft smile haunting his lips, " - the tints that glow, but tell of days in goodness spent, a mind at peace with all below – a heart whose love is innocent!"

No one spoke, though one clapped, and it spread to the rest.

She only realised belatedly it was her who instigated it, stopping suddenly, as her palms smarted by the intensity of her applause.

Molly tore her eyes away from him, resting them on the poem itself, her hand on the lines, "That is poetry, don't you agree, Miss Hooper?" he said drawing her out.

Blinking, she gave a nod.

"With that said –_out_ –," he said walking off to his desk.

Once again she waited till the classroom was empty, so she could make her approach. She put the book on the desk, as he packed his things, "In what speed do you read, Molly? I am afraid my library will not be sufficient enough if I continue."

She almost dropped the rucksack in her hands, feeling a sudden stirring in her chest, as she covered her shock with speech, "Err - quite quickly, sir."

He had said her name.

"Obviously," he said clasping his suitcase shut, "Do you at all _enjoy _the words, or do you swallow them whole?" he said looking at her enquiringly.

"I – I – read, sir."

"Indeed," he said taking the suitcase in one hand, while pocketing the other, "Coming, Miss Hooper?"

"Yes, sir," she said with fast steps, until he turned and locked the classroom door, with her standing behind him.

"Was there anything else?" he said with his back to her, "Since you are fidgeting."

"No – no - or – well – yes."

He turned round with interest, "Yes?"

"Err – do you lend books to others?" she said quietly.

He tilted his head to the side, "Yes – _sir_."

"Oh, right, of course, sir, sorry. I just wondered, that's all," she said feeling overwhelmed by how silent the hallway was, and she allowed her feet to put distance between them.

She felt stupid for asking.

"Miss Hooper – if you wish me to stop – I will."

She turned to face him, "No, it's – fine, sir."

"Good," he said with an unreadable expression, before he walked off.

She held onto her arms, staring at his back, until she finally turned and left for her next class. For a single second she had been in the belief that she was special, and it stung knowing that wasn't true.


	4. Subtext

**A/N:** Alas there was some wait, due to some problems. Blame time-zones. I'd like to thank my beta AussieMaelstrom and Ceaselesslyinlove for having a look as well. I hope this is ok.

* * *

**Subtext:** The implicit meaning or theme of a literary text.

* * *

_Every step she took upon the blue carpet spread dust underneath her slippers. Giving no thought to it, she hurried forward down the dark hallway, feeling as if eyes were upon her._

_She held the lantern in her hands firmly, swallowing at the darkness before her, allowing her light to shine upon the shadows. _

_Little was to be seen, though she knew there was a door. _

_She was seeking it out, having slipped so quietly out of her room from sheer daring, and want._ _It always seemed to take forever before she found the door. Only her movements echoed in her bleak surroundings. _

_She wished she could turn around. _

_She never did do so, finding the door in front of her – the instant she thought of fleeing. _

_There it was, half-open, a slight outpour of light coming from the inside. Pushing the door open with a pale hand, the door creaked soundly at her entry, "What are you doing here?" a voice said. _

_She could not see the speaker, though she knew very well from the heavy warm hands on her waist that he was there. _

_His breath danced on her neck, "What are you doing in my room?" he breathed into her ear, and she felt her eyes shut. _

_He would bring her to his bed after that, his face innocent, and hers all confusion, while he whispered words that made her pale face flush. _

She woke up in the end, when the cold nipped at her form. A tiny disgruntled moan escaped her pale lips, while she tried to ignore the prominent ache in her body.

Molly turned to her side, willing sleep to return, so she could ignore what she ached for. She wanted sleep, nothing more, but by the way her fingernails dug into the mattress, she knew otherwise. The duvet was a crumpled mess by her feet, and she did not feel like correcting it either.

Everything felt heavy, for there was no point, none whatsoever.

No more sleep would be granted to her.

All of her dreams had taken a cruel turn, wandering into a realm of possibility she knew that in her conscious state she would avoid. The books were to be attributed for bringing her these nightly torments that gave no resolution.

Details never stayed, only vague sequences that fluttered in her mind at intervals. Neither did she dare remember them properly. Only one thought remained with her while she lay there, remembering him saying – (it was such a thing _he_ would say) – "Why are you in my bed?" It was not him who spoke those words. He was only a figment of her imagination, a shadow of the man who stood in the classroom.

Molly gave up the business of sleeping then and there, sitting up in her bed, as she tried to drive the sleep out of her eyes. For many minutes she stayed, allowing her mind to wander freely, to go where it dared not trespass in the classroom. It was amidst these silly thoughts that turned her sweet expressions grim, that her eyes spared a glance at the clock.

The contraption was not on her nightstand, but upon the floor neglected. She grabbed for it, staring in horror, as she saw the time.

Of course,_ of course _she would be late.

Warnings from her father the night before had been no use, "Remember, I'm leaving early in the morning, so I won't be able to wake you, right?" She'd nodded firmly at that, declaring that she would be on time.

* * *

Her wrinkled uniform and messy plait was the least of her worries, upon arriving forty minutes late to class. She did not look innocent whatsoever, quite the opposite, so it was an understatement to say Professor Florence looked angry at her entering. His narrowed eyes took in the state of her uniform, while her stomach churned loudly at the silence.

"Detention!" he spat out to the laughter of the class, not that she had expected any less.

The detention certainly worsened the quality of her day by making her terribly late for her grandmother. Of course she received a severe reprimand from the old lady regarding 'punctuality'.

She wasn't at all sympathetic to her plight, or explanations, only accusing her of being 'whimsical' and 'distracted'.

Molly found she could not argue against those points, for her mind never stayed put these days. When she read, she'd always drift off, but today's sermon kept her mind grounded for once. They were reading about - _a young girl seduced by an older man _- which made her acutely aware of her surroundings.

She practically squirmed in her seat, her foot jittery, as she tried to remain emotionless in her chair. It was a harder task than she supposed, for her mind drew parallels between her and a certain figure.

Neither did it help that her grandmother constantly tutted, coming with the odd cautionary remark digging unease into her stomach. Molly had to constantly remind herself that she had no reason to be anxious, for she was not being seduced.

There were no secret exchanges of letters, or meetings, or any of the kind. All of those similarities were only mere coincidences, and her mind was just drawing silly conclusions more than anything.

Yet, her mind had wandered to the fact that she hadn't had the chance to meet him on the tube for once. The lateness of the hour had done that, and so her idiotic dream had ruined more than she could imagine.

He mustn't have felt her absence whatsoever, and she certainly did not feel torn about his either.

But the more she thought about it, the more restless she grew.

It wasn't as if she wouldn't see him roaming the hallways of the school or in the classroom. He would always be there, though those circumstances were like anyone else's. They were fleeting and ordinary, but she did not need anything else.

She was after all just his pupil, another curious mind he shared books with, and nothing more. Anything else that her mind designed was pure imagination, and she would stop the thoughts at once.

* * *

Molly knew when she took the crowded train home, that deciding to stop thinking about something certainly did not diminish those thoughts, and she found herself feeling his absence keenly.

After all she had no reason to be soppy, for she could indeed ask for a new book in his class. She was not the only one on the receiving end of his books, but the more she mulled that particular moment in her head – she realised – he hadn't truly answered her question.

It was she who'd assumed he meant 'yes'.

He had only corrected her pronunciation of his name, questioning if he should stop with his _underhanded_ business of lending books. Since, if she wasn't the only one, then none of it needed to be done so sneakily after all, but she could not compare a tube ride to a shady alley exactly.

She was being presumptuous. All of it resembled wishful thinking, and want of things she did not yet need to understand.

Her mind cleared a bit as the train jerked along. She was stood half-pressed against the wall, facing forward. Molly wished she'd been taller, so people couldn't easily shove her aside, but such wasn't the case. Around her tall figures stood bearing newspapers or briefcases, all of them ignoring her slight form to her blessing.

Often she would find herself leered at if she rode this late at night, so she kept her eyes down, and tried not to draw attention to herself. Luckily it took little effort for her, but she did struggle keeping herself on her feet.

With every sudden jolt or swing, her body would almost tumble on the surrounding passengers. She tried her best, though another unsuspecting bump came, and before she could brace herself upon the wall – a hand took hold of her shoulder, keeping her on her feet.

Molly was grateful, feeling only a bit unnerved by the unwanted contact, and intended to thank the stranger properly, hoping the hand would disappear with that.

When she was about to turn the train gave another jerk, causing people to cry out, and push them up against one another. Her small shape was soon pressed fully against the wall, her satchel digging into her stomach, as her helpful stranger was now pushed into her back.

She felt by the firmness of the figure behind her that it was a man, who immediately stiffened, his hand grasping her shoulder securely, "Miss Hooper," whispered a familiar voice.

The instant she heard the recognisable baritone voice she knew, and felt a redness creep upon her skin with such rapidity she knew not what to think or do.

It was Professor Holmes.

His voice sounded strained upon uttering her name, even apologetic, and she did not know what to say in return.

He attempted to relieve her shoulder from some pressure, though his hand was unmoving, but by the brief glance she threw backward she saw he could not move.

There were too many people, all of them forced to keep close to one another, ignorant of their predicament.

Molly only swallowed, trying to ignore the way his breath tickled her ear, or the strength that was apparent in his shape.

Images from her dream reappeared rather vividly to her embarrassment.

"I apologise," he said, his voice lower than usual.

She could only nod briefly at that.

His words were not a helpful addition, for his voice only made her recall her dream even more.

She tried to remain calm, despite the highly suggestive position they were forced into by rowdy travellers who were squabbling amongst themselves.

Molly felt herself argue against the intimacy of the moment, and for it. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to think quickly, for her silence was certainly not adding to the situation.

He was not supposed to be there after all.

Neither was his firm chest supposed to be thrust against her back, his hand attempting to withdraw from her shoulder, "Ah," he said.

She realised he could not remove his hand from her shoulder, though he made no further comment, and she felt relief, besides internal distress.

Whatever his weekly activities were - they'd kept him late, and so had hers.

Her mind started to race as to why he'd sought her out this late, of how he'd manage to find her hidden away like this, and she'd barely had the chance to think when she felt the edge of an object appear behind her back.

The hand on her shoulder was lifted away, splayed out against the wall in front of her instead, his face lightly brushing hers at this alteration.

She jumped at the contact, however small it was was, but she did not get further away.

He wanted to speak, she could feel it, but instead she interrupted him, "It's…alright," she said with a dry throat.

Dream and reality were never supposed to blend, and her nosiness for the object behind her was diminished by the smell of him.

He was so unfamiliarly close, and she felt like she had broken ten school-rules by the proximity they shared.

Suddenly she felt movement around her, as people were starting to disperse at what seemed to have been the longest of journeys. She was taken aback when she felt long fingers drape over her hand.

Molly gasped over the softness of his fingertips, trying to understand, when he prized one of her hands off her satchel.

In her hand he placed a familiar object, though it took her seconds to understand what.

The second she knew, the train had started to empty, and the warmth she had found with him was gone.

In her hands was a book - _Lady Chatterley's Lover._

* * *

An accident.

She repeated that to herself, trying to calm her nerves that were on a rise, when she finally got home that evening. Conversation she did not manage to keep up, no matter how much she tried, her appetite not improving either by the thought of him lingering around her.

She wasn't supposed to be foolish, not at all, and she kept reminding herself that there were others. They certainly had to receive the same books, but she did not know if they'd ever gotten to him so…close.

Upon finally submitting to her curiosity, despite foreknowledge about the subject matter – she opened up the pages of the book, intending to savour every line.

She wanted to slowly marvel over every word, to penetrate the minds of the characters properly, but amidst her reading – she found a piece of paper.

Molly believed, or wanted to at least believe it was purely some odd scrap of paper he'd forgotten from work, but upon the note it said -

_221 B Baker Street, Saturday, 6 o´clock._

* * *

Words faded away before her, the lines blurring so often she did not find the task at hand easy, but she was now certain she would finish the book at a slow rate.

Her eyes kept drifting off to the mystifying note, with its address, and day marked down. She slammed the book in her hands shut, giving it up as a bad joke, as she tried to make sense of the note.

Firstly it needn't be addressed to her, neither could it at all suggest this coming Saturday, and it might be an old forgotten note.

The writing was almost unreadable, scribbled in such a hurry, the ink staining her fingertips as well. She could only conclude it had been written rather recent, despite her objections.

She still tried to reason with it; unable to believe it was addressed to her, as the idea was peculiar. He hadn't actually given her the address to his home? Perhaps it wasn't, and in its place she would find some eccentric museum?

Molly understood him to be precise, and he did not seem one to be negligent. He had given this to her knowingly, or else it would not be in the book.

This was no ordinary exchange, secretly done as well, but perhaps the address wasn't his, and she was reading far more into it.

The sheer idea that he'd give his address to her in this manner shocked her. It didn't necessarily mean anything, as it could just be innocent.

When she roughly opened the pages of the book again, trying to let her mind focus on the words – she came to the conclusion that none of it could be 'innocent'. The book itself gave proof of that, such tales one did not hand to a mere pupil without any intent.

She had heard stories, of course.

Rumours that were whispered about professors and students involved in torrid relationships. Those relationships were always found out, and broken off with dire consequences.

Association with a professor, in an _indecent _manner wasn't exactly something anyone would accept, as she could only imagine her granny's watchful eyes turn to her in outright disgust.

And Professor Holmes!

Him of all people!

He who seemed to be so…

No, if she were outright honest he seemed rather…_well_…several of her female classmates had many words about the man.

Words that she wouldn't have considered at all, hadn't it been for the wicked dreams that kept bothering her, and tearing upon her nerves maddeningly. Now she didn't only have a dream to draw from either. For the way his body stayed so close to her in the train – with his breath upon her skin – made her flush there she lay.

He was her professor!

Of course it was innocent!

She was mad to think anything else, or imply any sort of seduction.

Her hands lingered on the pages of the book. Well-known for its sensational imagery…

Here his _why_ was now evident, especially when his note was slipped into her textbook.

There could be no mistake.

Yet…_her?_

She was ordinary, unremarkable in every way.

She was not a damsel in a book. She had no cutting remarks to throw back, and she could not understand why he'd pick her.

Perhaps it was that fact entirely – no one would ever assume – _her_.

No one would ever consider her being embroidered into something so, unexpected. She who did all her assignments on time, who worked diligently to receive high marks in every class, who kept quiet…

This was his attraction, if there were any, and she felt interest fly from her, as it was replaced with anger and disbelief.

Molly Hooper had no intention of being persuaded by pretty books and a clever man. He was her professor – however close he was to her age – it was immoral – but she knew he wouldn't.

He couldn't…

Professor Holmes did not strike her as that man.

But did she truly know him?

No one did.

His workings with the Scotland Yard could all be codswallop, with him trying to seem interesting in their class, to strike fear, and to craft a wonderful enigma about himself.

He was just a man, a grown man, and she was just a girl.

She was ribbing herself if she at all believed he was capable of trying to do anything as such. Molly half-expected to find Toby laughing with her, as he sat purring at the end of the bed.

She felt like she'd gotten thrown through the looking glass, and she was unsure of what she saw.

* * *

Determined she got to class on time, waking at the crack of dawn to ensure she would not be late, taking the book with her, with no intention of finishing it.

She would not be lured into a plot, if that_ were_ his intention. Constantly doubting herself would do no good, as she needed to relay her message.

If he had no dubious intentions, then he would not be offended, at all, and then she could ask about the note without trepidation.

Professor Holmes could after all have seeded out a particular branch of students, who he saw fit for extra curricular-activity.

It was with uneasy steps she trod into the half-empty classroom, glancing briefly at him, settling at the back of the class for once, as far away she could.

Having him stare at her would do her no good, though she was aware that one of the girls, Mariah Hemsworth watched her confused, "Why are you sitting up back?" she asked.

Molly's eyes flew towards Holmes who was settled by his desk, staring down at some papers before him, idly rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt, showing off his forearms.

"I just - I wanted to," said Molly bringing up the book for class, putting it on the table, and soon she saw Mariah sprinting forward, taking her place.

She almost huffed in her seat, catching herself for a second, as she couldn't exactly be jealous.

Indeed, maybe she truly had gone mad in believing that Professor Holmes wanted her of all people. Mariah was after all one of the prettiest girls in their class, with her luscious hair that she let fall loosely on her shoulders, with her rosy painted cheeks and lips.

Molly didn't fall into that particular brand, even with her _supposed_ suitors. She wasn't eye-catching at all, and it did not make any sense that Professor Holmes would want her. Compared to the romantic descriptions of the women in the various books he'd given her – she was plain.

If she would compare herself to one woman, it was Jane Eyre. She fell into that particular category, with her light-brown hair always sat up in a ponytail and ordinary brown eyes.

She didn't have full red lips, did not have a heaving bosom, or flawless soft skin. Quite the opposite in her own opinion, and so it was obvious he'd chosen her out of the sheer fact that she didn't believe herself important.

That had to be it, certainly.

The classroom started to fill up, students taking their seats, some of them peering at her inquiringly, adjusting themselves to their seating, as she kept her eyes cast downwards into her hands.

When the class was full, and the door to the room slammed shut by Holmes she looked up, and found his gaze was not on her.

He seemed disinterested with her sudden shift, absolutely uninterested, if she were entirely honest, "Good morning class," he said with the book in his hand, "Miss Hemsworth, would you mind reading from page 176, for us? Today we are taking on the bard himself, and I am sure you are capable of giving his words justice."

He sounded bored.

Mariah was indeed capable, to Molly's growing frustration, and she tried to dismiss the thought, as she saw Holmes stare raptly at the girl who sang-song the lines out without fault.

_My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;  
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;  
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;  
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.  
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,  
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;  
And in some perfumes is there more delight  
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.  
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know  
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;  
I grant I never saw a goddess go;  
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:  
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare  
As any she belied with false compare. _

"That was sonnet 130 – _now_ – Miss Hemsworth, do you know what it is about?" said Professor Holmes lowering his brows, a rather blank expression on his face, making Molly tilt her head in confusion.

He seemed to know something, as he leaned slightly forward.

"Oh, err – I suppose – it's about – err – well – obviously he's talking about a woman who's very beautiful…sir" stuttered Mariah forward, uncertainty clinging to her every word.

"Ah," said Holmes leaning back, his back straighter, as his eyes were now on Molly.

She tried to avert his gaze, though her lashes fluttered upwards, and he said, "Miss Hooper – since you and Miss Hemsworth have traded places, would you care to explain this sonnet?"

Molly bit her lip, swallowing slightly, as she felt his message was clear – "The first line, is – my mistress eyes are nothing like the sun – he's mocking other sonnets, sir."

"Why is that?"

"Since everyone speaks so highly of beauty…and they constantly try to go on about how that is the best quality, but he – Shakespeare knew more-," Mariah turned round to her with slits for eyes, " – He didn't want to compare his love to that, for he saw…what she truly is. She is not a goddess, her hair is not so fair, and she's just human, but still – nothing…compares to _her."_

The look he gave her was indecipherable, only giving a brief nod, before he said, "You are quite right, Miss Hooper. He shows the foolishness of any poet at the time, spinning out lies, and untruths – gasping about a woman's beauty. No woman would believe that." His eyes are now on the class, "Do not let yourself be idiots, if a boy tells you such things. He's most certainly lying and will undoubtedly…"

Some of the boys broke out in laughter, "Yes," said Holmes with a raised brow, which made the laughter die out, "Don't trust a boy, but don't trust a man either."

She felt conflicted there she sat, managing to appreciate him from the distance, and understanding that this was not a simple game, whatever he was playing at.

* * *

He was hurriedly tossing his things into his briefcase, when she finally stood by his desk, and sat the book quietly down, "You have not read it," he said, sounding annoyed, but he wasn't looking at her.

She drew her shoulders back slightly, trying to mask her surprise at his knowing the difference between a read book, or not, and the second she intended to open her mouth, "You do not look tired, Miss Hooper."

Shutting her mouth, she stared at him, "I – I -,"

"Leave," he said smacking his suitcase shut, soon clutching it in his hands, the nerves on his skin protruding.

"Yes, sir," she said meekly, walking off without looking back, only hearing him sigh in the distance.

* * *

She did not know what front he was putting, for he was acting so abusive in class, that whatever anyone said was ignored, or they were called an idiot for disrupting his _methods._

His mood seemed to shift like the weather had, for now the red leaves were trodden down into the ground, and the trees bare.

Mornings were unbearably cold and so was he.

He did not give her another book, as she saw him with a hardened expression on the tube instead.

Molly knew that she had in some ways refused him, for that was evident by his sudden anger, and she knew she had done the right thing.

But, nevertheless, she did not feel good about it.

Of all things she felt guilty, but the blame did not lay with her. This was not her fault, and she felt herself reading her granny's sermons with a fiercer voice.

He was making it seem like it was her burden, like her not accepting his invitation, which was without a doubt not a harmless one with his behaviour – that _she'd_ done wrong.

She had done right in refusing him, though her dreams worsened by every turn, and she wished he would leave the school if he were so thrown off by her.

Every time she saw him out of the corner of her eyes, she saw sadness. Holmes made his activities glaringly obvious now, not taking to the roof for his cigarettes, and neither did he smile at any of them.

He had changed, or perhaps he had just revealed his true nature to them. But she knew, by the glares he threw around the room, that there was softness in his eyes…

And, then she understood, and she felt like a fool – he was lonely.

He was lonely, and he'd spotted her loneliness as well.

* * *

She closed the book in her hands, staring unblinkingly on her snoring granny's face, almost laughing. The old woman had fallen asleep, like she did on occasion, and it was a benediction.

Carefully Molly sat aside the book, taking to explore the length of the room. Passing the dusty piano – untouched since her grandfather's death.

She leapt gingerly in front of the bookcase, hazarding a look towards her still-sleeping grandmother, as she tried to find any book – just one. It needed to be only one book, really, though she hoped to find it, as she'd seen it there once.

Grinning she slipped it out, placing it into her rucksack, before she continued with her loud reading, rousing her granny by almost shouting out a word.

Her grandmother jumped in her chair, blinking wearily, rubbing at her temples, "I think we'll call it a day."

It was ridiculous, it was very wrong, but she knew that he would need to be shocked somehow. And this was certainly enough, she supposed, or so hoped. The fact that her granny owned the book was enough in itself, and she knew how tricky it was to find such books in the library. Being told she was being – silly – would not do her any good at all; so, she had taken desperate measures to provoke him out of his stupor.

At least she hoped she would.

* * *

Plotting did not suit her, agitating her beyond belief, as she found herself almost squeamish and unsettled by his behaviour.

He was turning worse by every class.

Students were abusive behind his back, all wondering what had gotten into him, and she knew this was her only chance.

His back was to her in the tube, and she settled down on one of the available seats, clearing her throat, as she brought out the book.

She fixed her eyes on the pages, and tried to seem absolutely enraptured, despite wanting to look up at him. When her eyes tempted such a thing – he wasn't standing in front of her anymore.

Molly sighed, closing the book, as she peered around for him.

No dark curls were in sight, and she felt a greater loss than she'd ever presume.

Of course it wouldn't work, it was the stupidest of ideas, and she had been rash. Obviously, he was laughing at her idiotic attempt.

Getting off at her station, she walked out stuffing the book back in her rucksack, intending to give it back to her granny.

Her steps were slow and measured there she walked, seeing the large white posh building where her granny lived, when she felt a warm hand grab hers.

She shrieked of sudden alarm, but someone smothered his or her hand upon her mouth stifling her cry.

She was about to fight back, until she recognised his steely blue-eyed gaze.

He had her pushed against the brick wall of the building, shielded from the view of onlookers, as a tree hid them away, "Don't – scream," he said with a low voice, his closeness unnerving her, his usually strict tie drawn loosely around his neck, two buttons of his shirt undone.

He looked a mess, but he released his hand on her lips.

"Sir-," she started wide-eyed, shocked by his sudden appearance, "I thought you'd gotten off."

His eyes narrowed amusedly, his mouth quirking upwards; "I can hide in plain sight, Miss Hooper – unlike some."

"Oh…ok," she said nervously, as one of his hands was leaning against the brick-wall.

He did not say anything, neither did she know what to expect, for he only stared at her. Like he was trying to understand something, and she could hardly call herself puzzling.

His breath reached her face, blue eyes dropping to her lips, as she saw his chest heaving for breath. He was so close now, the dark look in his eyes making her flush, and she wondered if she should speak.

She did not know what to say, or do. Molly only returned the look, taking in his face properly for once, and found a flicker of hope in his eyes. He seemed to be hovering in front of her with resolve, his face edging closer to hers, as his mouth was slightly parted.

She stood in awe.

But he suddenly leapt back, almost unsurely, unlike anything she'd seen him do.

His bravado had dropped, he looked almost apprehensive, "Miss Hooper – you should return your book to your grandmother – before she finds it missing," he said with gritted teeth unable to look at her, until he started to stride off.

"Sir…I was wondering," she said licking her lips, and he turned to her with raised brows.

"Yes?"

"Just, err – what exactly – the note, you see?"

He looked bewildered for a second, until understanding dawned upon his face, "My home is always open to you, _Molly_." With that he was gone, leaving her with flaming red cheeks, as she leaned against the brick-wall for support.

It took her ages to get through any passage at her granny's, as her mind ambled back to the way his voice had broken upon saying her name.

Molly returned _Don Juan_ to its shelf mutedly, knowing that it was in some ways too late, for without even really touching her – she was already his.


	5. Temptation

**A/N:** Thank you AussieMaelstrom for being a wonderful beta! I hope you've all had a wonderful holiday, possibly on-going, as it is for me. I apologise for the delayed chapter - I blame Christmas. My last weeks have been filled with family/friends/birthday/etc. So read on!

PS: An anon reviewer asked what age they are. Molly is 16-17 and Sherlock is 26-27.

* * *

**Temptation:** The act of tempting or the condition of being tempted.

She had barely been able to sleep, her fingers busy caressing the bit of parchment with his address (kept hidden in her well-worn copy of 'Treasure Island'). Molly did not know exactly what to do with this piece of information, or the understanding she had managed to comprehend, which had taken place between her and Professor Holmes. Or at least she assumed there was an understanding, though – an understanding of what? No, the more she tried to think of it, the more flustered and confused she got. Her breakfast was evading her mouth constantly, as she drew back the piece of toast from her lips amidst her wondering.

Pursed lips, and furrowed brows were what she greeted her father with, as he strode into the kitchen stretching out his large arms. "You're up early?" he said with a yawn, giving a tiny pleased mutter, as he saw that she'd sorted out the breakfast for them both (an unusual occurrence for she was always the last to wake up).

"I couldn't sleep," she said slathering her toast with more butter, hoping that a thicker layer would tempt it inside her mouth, or at least give the implication that she was indeed partaking in some bit of breakfast.

She had already drunk two cups of coffee, both of which she felt in her stomach and head, buzzing wildly through her body.

"Something bothering you?" asked her father, eyeing her as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

Molly started automatically chewing at her lips, before she ducked behind her cup of coffee, "No," she mumbled.

He settled by the kitchen table, eyed the spread, and the morning's newspaper, which she'd folded on the table for him to read, "Right," he said with a raised brow, soon hiding behind his newspaper, "So, I'd be wrong in assuming that this has anything to with your boyfriend, then?"

The ever so light nature of the remark, casually thrown out, made Molly spray the newspaper with the coffee she had in her mouth.

Wide-eyed, she stood up from her chair, scraping it loudly against the floor, as she scrambled for a cloth.

Her father's face had tiny bits of coffee, besides his now ruined paper, but he took it all with great humour, "I suspected as much," he said, while she quietly cleared off the paper and wiped on the kitchen counter.

She looked at him briefly, but he didn't seem deterred by her silence, "Your gran's been ringing me up lately talking about some lad that's got you distracted, and to be entirely honest I don't disagree with her. You've been coming home with foreign books and what-not, sitting up late-,"

"I always do that-," she said, only to realise she was still trying to clean an already spotless table, making her skip off to the sink quickly to wash up the used cloth, " – I'm just…getting a bit bored reading for gran."

"Ok, I'll buy that a bit for now, if you want," he said with his lips pressed together, as she settled down at the kitchen table again, feeling relieved that he wasn't pressing about it anymore.

She never suspected he'd take part in the questioning that her grandmother had indulged in, "Does his name begin with an S?" he said making her full of alarm.

Her brows disappeared into her hairline, as she found herself stuttering for a reply. Molly's mind raced, for whatever answer she gave now depended solely on what he might have _heard._ She felt beyond embarrassed, wishing it were just a coincidence, as her mind drew forth the most popular of names from her favourite childhood book, "Jim!"

He looked momentarily confused, "Sounds familiar, have I met the lad?" _No, but he had made all the voices_, and in some ways she suspected he had.

"No," she said with an uneasy smile, loathing herself for having told such a lie, as she certainly did not have a boyfriend, and he certainly did not go by the name of _Jim._

"Someone at your school, then?"

"Err - oh – no – he goes to Susan's school!"

"That's nice," said her dad, "Lives a bit further away, then? Good – _good_."

Molly found herself blinking at that, "How's that good?" She couldn't help herself from asking, despite Jim being imaginary.

"I'm off to Frank's this weekend. He's got some car-trouble again, and wanted me to sort it out for him, for some pounds obviously, and I thought that would be nice, you know."

She suddenly found herself being reminded of a certain address, which jumped fairly quickly into her mind without much difficulty.

"You'll be gone the whole weekend?" she said rather flabbergasted.

"Yes - so no visitors – no – Tim."

"Jim," she corrected him.

"Right – just – don't have him coming round here, right?"

She shook her head at that, half-laughing of the assumption, despite the uneasy feeling that arose in her stomach, "Dad, we're not-,"

"I know _you're_ not, and I'm half in my mind to take you with me, but your granny told me not to."

"She did?" said Molly gaping.

"Yes, told me it would be good for you to be by yourself a bit, and it's only a weekend after all. It's not like I won't come rushing home the very instant I hear something dodgy going round."

Molly felt the corners of her mouth turning up at the very idea, though she felt a rather familiar prickly sensation take place inside her stomach, scrambling her insides, "I'll be fine," she said with a smile.

"You're not worried about being alone? I remember that one time you were quite sure our neighbours tried to break in," he said rather seriously, with his elbows on the table, as he ignored his food.

"When I was seven?" she asked with a giggle.

He scoffed loudly in return, soon slapping two slices of bread together with a bit of ham, which he took a great bite of, "Fine, you've got the cat, and the landline, I'll be out of your hair – since you've grown and become a lady."

He seemed rather cross, though she saw the familiar twinkle in his eyes. She stood up from her chair and gave him a swift kiss on the forehead, "I'll be fine dad, promise."

"I know," he grunted, his mouth bursting with food.

* * *

She had packed her things trying not to consider that she would be facing Professor Holmes in class. His behaviour the evening before was distracting her senseless, all of her thoughts going to the dark haired man, and the way he'd behaved.

He had done nothing, yet it was as if he had.

Molly was not experienced when it came to boys, _or _men. Her knowledge stemmed from books, some filled with intricate illustrations and scientific names to the male _bits_.

She had extensive knowledge regarding the human body, as she found the workings of it very interesting, but the concept of uttering the word 'penis' without smiling a little was rather tricky. Girls weren't supposed to know such a word either, despite most of her year having gotten their knowledge regarding the male anatomy due to a flasher some year's back.

His escapades were short-lived thanks to the police, and their education cut short, but they were all intrigued. Molly found herself in the end roaming medical books, trying to find out more, and was astonished to find very little information about the female body.

She had already familiarized herself with her own body of course, but she would have found it comforting to find more than just fertilising in the books, "We don't have_ those_ kind of books, dear," the librarian had told her sheepishly.

From the hushed conversations that she heard at school, it was obvious that no male anatomy was the same, "It went to the left, really," she heard once, which only intrigued her more, despite being terrified.

She heard enough girls in her school going on about their sexual exploits, while they hung around in the lavatories smoking cigarettes.

Molly had only ever been kissed once, and it was a rather unsettling experience. She had been twelve, and went wandering with the neighbour's son Oliver who when they'd gotten far enough away from their parents had promptly bitten her mouth in what was supposed to be a kiss. It took her some years before she understood it wasn't supposed to be like that, and she didn't wish to count it as her first.

Her only 'sexual' experience had been a man forcibly grabbing her one breast for _support _in the tube, which resulted in her breast being tender for a couple of days.

These were not incidents she would call at all pleasant, or memorable, and her stolen moments with Professor Holmes certainly went higher up on the list of experiences.

Molly had found herself contemplating the 'poetry', the 'subjects' and all that Professor Holmes had gone through, almost concluding that maybe it was for 'her'. A remarkable thought, one she kept trying to disbelieve, but she could not any more. No, she couldn't. The way he had looked at her, his blue eyes fixed on her face with such a look. She could not describe the look even if she tried, it seemed like hunger, like sadness, and it made her stomach crawl to think of it.

No one had ever done so before.

No one.

The coming Saturday loomed over her, her father's absence making her conclude that the_ moment_ had come, but she did not know entirely what that moment might be.

His home was open to her, and to her alone, that much she understood now, and it was an idea that she could not forget. But she did not know if she could allow herself to do such a thing either, for this her father feared, despite her heart soaring happily upon the idea.

She'd spent the rest of the classes half-listening, her chin in her hand, as her eyes lingered out of the windows instead of focusing on the blackboards.

His lesson was of course the last of the day, occupying her thoughts, as she both dreaded and longed to see him. Molly did not know how she should handle the situation, or if she would in fact handle it at all.

There was nothing she could do in the confines of his classroom, least of all speak to him about his proffered 'note', which she wished to bring up with him accordingly.

'Always open' gave her time, but how much time? She needed to know, most of all she wanted to see him, wanted to know if he would be different in class again, back to his more pleasant self.

Molly entered the classroom for 'English' quite early, sitting down in her regular seat eyeing the room with trepidation.

He wasn't there yet, though there was a cup of coffee placed on the desk. Her eyes were immovable upon the cup, while her fingers drummed on her desk. Hurriedly she brought out her books and notebook, which she rifled open to a blank page.

She started to draw on the empty space, wasting paper, and giving her restless mind some relief, as the rest of the class filed in – he was still not there.

Molly was vaguely aware that she was drawing hands, though she did not wish to put too much thought as to why.

Silence fell over the class – her heart jumped to her throat – and she looked up as the classroom door banged shut.

There were no dark curls, no perceptive blue eyes, or ironed shirt, as it was a short blonde haired woman, "Good afternoon class," she said taking several steps in, her heels clicking on the floor, as she folded her hands at her front.

She pursed her red lips, "I'm Mary…Morstan," she said with a slight nod, "And I will be taking over for Professor Holmes today, as he is ill. Hopefully he will have recovered by Monday, but that remains to be seen."

* * *

Toby was resting on her stomach, while she lay staring up at the ceiling from her bed. Her father had left hours ago, forbidding her to spend the entire day in bed, but Molly found little to get her out of her stupor.

She couldn't stomach the idea of food, neither did any books give her any relief, and she was more tempted to return to sleep than anything. Unfortunately sleep was evading her as well, being only a tempting mistress on the edge of her mind and body.

Her thoughts returned to where they'd been lingering most of the morning, and the previous days – Professor Holmes.

He had not been at school, and that was troubling.

This was the first time he'd been ill during the many months he'd worked there. And the idea that he'd get sick right after plainly offering her, 'himself', hadn't made her feel any easier, making her draw the conclusion that he'd taken back his offer.

It was better if she stayed in doors anyway, as rain was pouring outside. Molly dug herself deeper into her covers, causing Toby to leap from her stomach, leaving her to herself, as her thoughts returned to Holmes.

She wished she knew him, wished she understood how his mind worked, and what he was in fact thinking. Everything would be easier if she did, except she was left in the dark rummaging for an answer.

Molly knew what was really bothering her, and it was because she didn't know if she should go or not. The offer was there, and she knew the address by heart. It was all arranged for her benefit, but then again he was apparently ill.

Groaning with frustration she crossed her arms, trying desperately not to think about him, about the clever and rather 'beautiful' man. She threw the covers over her head, digging her face into her pillow, as she tried to ignore the rise in her.

The more she tried, the more she twisted herself into her covers, making a cocoon of them, and in the end her hands finally found the warm centre between her thighs.

She was always filled with guilt and lust and wonder when she did such a thing, but the hot feverish dreams had taken over so much lately, it was as if her body moved of its own accord.

Gently she touched herself, imagining it was his fingers that stroked her instead of her own, and that it was he who spread her legs apart. Imagination was her friend, for she remembered words she'd read, those he'd read, and those enticing whispers in the dark done by his_ shadow. _At this very moment, she tried to imagine she was not in her girlish room attempting to dissolve all worry from her body. All it took was the faint memory of the smell of him, of his firm body pressed against hers, and she was shuddering silently underneath her covers.

In the end, when her breath turned steady once more she rolled around in the bed, and stared out of the window, watching the droplets of water hit the glass. Molly had never felt such a wave of pleasure hit her before, all of her previous fumbles were fickle, and she knew it was due to the sheer idea of him.

She sighed, finally ripping off the covers from her bed, as she had finally made her decision.

She was not staying home tonight.

* * *

Molly had left an appropriate amount of food out for Toby before she ran out, the weather having cleared up making her path easier to take.

She wore her coat nonetheless, as it was a tad nippy, but she took her steps with confidence. If she had stayed at home she would have been driven mad, and all of her whimsy would be subdued with a small visit after all.

She walked the streets with hasty steps, finally reaching the door, giving the doorbell a ring, until it opened to her, "Oh, Molly," said the maid Annabelle, "What are you doing here on a Saturday?"

Annabelle soon guided her to the sitting room of which her grandmother was occupying, the older woman was sat throwing her a steely gaze, "What do you want?"

"I just thought I'd visit," said Molly with a brief smile, even though she felt the restlessness in her.

"On a Saturday?" said her grandmother suspiciously.

Unannounced visits were never a thing either of them did, always keeping to their assigned Thursday and Sunday, and Molly felt the sudden anxiety swell up, "I can – I can go if you want," she said feeling the urge to do so fill her immediately, though her granny just tutted.

"Sit," said the old woman.

Sitting down, the woman was giving her an once-over, "Why are you in your school uniform?" she asked.

Molly looked down on her clothing, self-consciously pulling at her skirt. The logical explanation was that she didn't have much else to wear, though she didn't feel like saying it, "I forgot," she said with ease.

"Right," said her granny doubtfully resting her hands on a cane, before she leant back in her chair, "Do you need money, then?"

She blinked, "No."

"I doubt that."

"I honestly just wanted to visit," she said lying again.

"Where's your father?"

"He's working."

The woman snorted, clearly not convinced, "Right," she said again, "This isn't about the boy, then – this _Jim_?"

Her father had told, of all things. She had hoped he wouldn't give that away, but she supposed he was under pressure, "No," she said quickly recovering.

"Doubtful – he's not crossed you, has he?"

"No, no - he hasn't."

"These young boys," said her grandmother with a grimace, standing up, soon pacing in the room, until she stood in front of the dusty piano – her fingers hovering over the keys, "These boys – they're not like they used to make them." Her grandmother's expression was strangely soft, "Your grandfather however - he was a _man_."

Puzzled, Molly kept quiet, wondering what her grandmother was getting at, "He taught me how to play the piano," she said looking at Molly with an odd expression.

Her mother had mentioned it once, though she never really said anything more, "Off you go to your idiot boy, then, I'm sure you want to see him. Using me as an excuse won't help you."

"I – I was only-,"

"No, no you're not. I know a liar," spat her grandmother.

She was shown out after that, sent on her way by the maid who said, "It's not a good day for you to have come, Miss Hooper. She always gets like this," before she shut the door on her.

Even for her grandmother it was odd behaviour, and Molly foolish enough to have not brought an umbrella stared at the grey clouds above.

It was best to go home, she knew that, but the address was still etched in her mind.

She knew she wanted to go, just to see if he was okay, after all, and that wasn't the worst of ideas.

In her gut she knew that was a terrible excuse, though it was the one she'd give if he asked, for he was probably sick after all, and wouldn't welcome her in…

* * *

Running to fight the rain proved futile, for her clothes and coat were soaked, and she almost went home by the time she found his street. She slowed down, huddling further into her coat as she blinked against the downpour. She was an idiot. This was a terrible idea, and he was most certainly going to send her away. Yet she kept walking, striding against the wind and rain, until she was lingering outside his door.

Taking a deep breath she rang the doorbell.

She heard nothing.

No footsteps.

No voices.

Ringing again with trembling cold fingers, she held the button in longer, pressing it harder, but the same response came.

There was no one home.

Perhaps he was so ill that he couldn't even come down?

She rang again, hoping he'd answer, but no one came.

Molly looked down at her soaked shoes that squelched loudly as she started to walk away. But every step she took, she felt that she was never going to see him again. Every breath was a quivering one, and she felt like a stupid schoolgirl with idiotic fancies.

Stopping up to catch her breath, she fought against her better judgment so she wouldn't run back to hammer soundly at the door.

Intending to walk on, she became aware that the water didn't seem to drip onto her, but she heard the patter of the rain. Looking up she saw an umbrella held above her head, and she was confused for a few seconds, until a warm hand softly gripped by her by the shoulder, steering her back.

She stared at him, half-gaping, "I – I thought you were sick, sir."

"Case," he said with a peculiar gleam in his eye, seeming amused, "I hadn't expected you before 6 o'clock, Miss Hooper."

"Case?" she parroted foolishly, as he pushed her forward.

"Yes," he only said, forcing the umbrella handle into her hands, as he started to unlock his door.

He didn't seem to be rushing his actions whatsoever; neither did he glance around himself worryingly, like she would have thought. She half-expected him to do so, worried anyone might spot them together, but he didn't seem at a loss like she was, "Are you coming, Molly?"

His usage of her name spurred her inside, hurriedly shutting the umbrella, as she shook water onto the carpet. Professor Holmes removed his tweed-jacket, hanging it up, as she slowly shifted out of her wet coat. She held onto her arms shakily, while he looked at her bemused. "Unfortunately I do not own woman's clothing," he said, "You will have to do with mine." He sprang up the steps with his long legs, while she stood by downstairs.

"I'll be alright, sir," she said loudly.

He stopped in his stride, "Call me Sherlock. Now, come along Molly." She followed him upstairs, prompted by her own curiosity, and need of being in his presence.

Wooden floors creaked underneath her feet, while she dripped on everything, unable to argue when he handed her a towel and a dry robe, "The bath is through the kitchen," he said without looking at her, hands on his hips.

She walked through, catching sight of the bookcase dominating an entire wall. Passing through the kitchen she spotted a chemistry set on the kitchen table, before she finally got to the bath.

The robe he handed her feels like pure silk, certainly not from regular teaching wages, and not one for any woman. It's dark blue and soft underneath her fingertips. Holding it close to her face, she takes a deep breath, and obviously it smells like him. It's a masculine scent, appealing and not harsh in any way.

Blushing she slowly removes her wet clothing, trying to dry herself at the same time, as her hair clings to her face. She almost doesn't recognise the reflection she sees in the mirror, as if she looks older. It is but the circumstance that is unfamiliar she wagers then and there, nerves coiling in her stomach.

Slipping on the robe, she tries to shake off the fact that he's worn it, and she busies herself with folding her clothes. Molly lets the towel sit on her head, hoping her hair will dry.

And with a wobbly breath she walks out of the bathroom, trying to pretend she hasn't remembered every detail of the interior, "I made tea," he said loudly from the sitting room.

Her head turns briefly round, there's a half-open door that leads towards his bedroom and she jolts her head back.

Walking out, she spots the tea on a small table, between two large chairs, one of which he's sitting on, with his eyes motionless on the papers in his lap.

He looks messier than usual, with several shirt buttons undone and his tie hanging loosely, and she fidgets at the remembrance of his appearance, until she settles down in the chair opposite him (settling her clothes on the floor).

He doesn't say anything, no comment, no gleam in his eye, and she wonders if she has intruded. Perhaps she isn't as welcome after all, but she takes an already filled cup of tea anyway to fight the cold in her body. Finding comfort in the porcelain, while keeping her eyes elsewhere, she finds her voice after several long sips, "Sir-,"

He clears his voice loudly, she realises he's reprimanding her, and she catches his eyes that are on her now, "Sherlock…"

His name feels unfamiliar on her lips.

The corner of his mouth turn upwards, as he settles his papers aside, "Yes?" His attention is fully on her now, leaning properly back into his chair, as the spark in his eye flickers forth.

She stares at his face now, allowing herself to do so, or at least braving the storminess that are lurking in his eyes, "I'm sorry, that I came early…"

"I didn't expect you to come," he said sounding almost wistful.

Molly almost doesn't know what to say at that, for his eyes have gone dark, and have travelled away from her face, "Oh," she said attempting to fill the silence, to say at least something similar to sensible, for she almost didn't come.

"Obviously I was wrong," he said, his eyes wandering now, glancing towards her legs, which she quickly tucks underneath herself, "Are you afraid of me?"

He says it slowly, the words hanging in the air for a while.

"No," she said, but the truth was she wasn't scared.

But she was nervous, "I'll just go then, when the rain stops."

His hands are steepled underneath his chin, his expression curious, "You can stay," he said. He's not asking, it sounds more like a reply, than anything, "Your father isn't home, is he?"

Gaping at him, she shuts her mouth, before nodding, "He's at a friends."

"And you do not like being alone."

It's not a question, though she nods anyway. She can pretend all she likes, but she doesn't enjoy being alone. There's something comforting with having another breathing human being in another room, grunting and making the occasional sound, louder than a soft mewl in the dark.

"There are worse things than the dark," he said with a distant expression, eyes slightly narrowed, before they flash towards her again.

"Like what, sir?"

His brows knit together and she realises her mistake, but he doesn't correct her, his eyes only turning dark, "Drink up, Molly."

Lifting the cup to her lips, she drinks the perfectly sweetened tea, emptying the contents; overly aware of her own breathing, as he turns silent in front of her, but he is looking at her.

His eyes are unwavering, fixed on her face, and she finds herself almost unable to look him in the eye. She sets aside the empty cup, swallowing, and she feels that she's made a racket.

It's her breath and his, her movement and his stillness, which are the only sounds she hears. The rain is still on going outside, muffled sounds of the splatter on the windows, and she wishes that he'd tell her, that he'd explain what is going on. That he'll do anything, something – "Shall I?" he said breaking the silence.

Her eyes turn to him, and she stares at him perplexed. He takes off from his seat, soon grasping a book from the bookshelves, and she recognises its cover, _Lady Chatterley's Lover._ His cup of tea is untouched on the table, heat rising from it, as he shuffles through the pages, stopping finally.

"Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically-," his voice is loud and clear, like in the classroom, though it sounds different, stirring various emotions in her, which she rather not linger on, "The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes." Relaxing into her chair, she tries to listen only to his voice, shutting her eyes briefly, "It is rather hard work, there is now no smooth road into the future…but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles."

He exhales, "We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen."

* * *

She opens her eyes, feeling her body groan against the sheer idea of waking. And as she stirs she feels the unfamiliar sheets over her, besides the silk around her body. This is not her room, nor her bed. Her breath hitches in her throat, seeing the darkness through a window, the rain still spraying the glass. Getting up on unsteady feet, with a stifled yawn, she walks barefoot out of his bedroom, until she walks back to the sitting room.

A fire is in the hearth, the only source of light in the room, as he is sat with closed eyes on the chair. She must have fallen asleep, she almost giggles, but she sees the expression on his face - innocent. He let her take his bed, and he, by the look of him – did not intend to join her.

Securing the robe around her, she walks with slow steps on the carpet, until she is stood before him.

This is him - in his most private of moments, and she finds herself bending down on her knees to look up at his face properly.

There are no worried lines on his face, no tension, no anger, and it makes her feel at ease.

He does not intend to use her, not like she had feared at all, and without thinking her hand reaches for his face.

He stirs underneath her palm, his face warm, against her cooler palm, and his eyes open with a blaze.

She almost takes her hand back, though she lets it stay – feeling him take a breath underneath her touch.

His eyes are confused, a muddled mirage of blue, and she's wondering if she's dreaming this.

Molly is not usually this brave, but she doesn't remove her hand, despite thinking she should. Instead, she leans forward, feeling his breath on her face, feeling the nerves build in her stomach, as she knows what she's about to do.

Crossing this line will erase all the others, and she knows it, but she wants to. It is chaste, short, and hurried – she feels her face is steeped in red when she pulls away from his lips, letting her hand drop to her side.

His expression is merely puzzled, not giving away any other response, and she almost resolves to leave, taking to stand up, but he takes hold of her wrist firmly.

She stares down at him, torn between shock and want, and he pulls her into his lap without a word. The warmth of his body is overwhelming, as he wraps his hands around her waist, his palms on the soft fabric.

She leans back into him, feeling his breath on her neck, his curls tickling her, and he whispers, "Shall I begin?"

She doesn't know what he means, though he releases a heavy hand on her waist, bringing up the book again.

Time passes effortlessly, without unease, for she loses count at the words that cause her to relax on his lap. His voice is low and deep, his words heavy with meaning, as her hands grip at the arms of the chair for support.

She is afraid of touching him, more than anything, though she could not imagine doing so with anyone else, as his steady voice continues. Willingly she shuts her eyes, sleep almost grasping at her, letting her release a small sigh, at which he pauses in his reading, but he continues. The book has been ordinary to this point, for how long he has read she does not know; neither does she manage to grasp every word.

Slowly the mood alters, her eyes flicker open, as she feels an unfamiliar pressure underneath her.

_She lay quite still, in a sort of sleep, in a sort of dream. _

She feels him breathe heavily underneath her, feels the push and pull of his warm chest, and the hand that resides comfortably on her thigh. His hands are large, long fingers, which she stares at.

_Then she quivered as she felt his hand groping softly, yet with queer thwarted clumsiness, among her clothing. _

He does not pause in his reading, as his hand slides upwards, passing the silk robe, roaming on the soft skin between her legs, and she takes an intake of breath.

_Yet the hand knew, too, how to unclothe her where it wanted._

His hand stills just skirting on the edge, but his words go on.

_He drew down the thin silk sheath, slowly, carefully, right down and over her feet._

When she feels his hand attempt to draw back, she grabs it, giving it a small tender squeeze, before withdrawing hers again.

Taking a deep breath, before continuing his reading, his hand slides between her thighs.

_Then with a quiver of exquisite pleasure he touched the warm soft body, and touched her navel for a moment in a kiss._

The touches are brief, almost ticklish, and she almost squirms, though she feels the hardness of him underneath her twitch perceptively.

It's unmistakable, but he doesn't push her away.

Carefully, his hand grazes the fabric of her knickers, and she feels her skin flush deeper. He withdraws only briefly, teasingly, pondering on the soft skin between her thighs, as he draws one finger slowly on the fabric.

_And he had to come in to her at once, to enter the peace on earth of her soft, quiescent body. _

She whimpers, unable to keep herself silent, and suddenly the book is thrown aside with a thud on the floor. Hand now free, he brings it up to caress her breast softly through the thin silk layer, as the other slides carefully on top of her now damp knickers.

Overwhelmed she leans her head back on his shoulder, feeling him touch her where no one ever has, except herself. There is confidence in the strokes; the touches make her skin tingle, and her body flush with desire.

His fingers slide into her wet folds, slow and deliberate.

Sounds she'd never heard before are uttered from her mouth, throaty, devoid of any meaning, but he removes his hands – making her feel utterly dissatisfied with his sudden retreat. Instead she finds a finger underneath her chin, making her turn to face him with wide brown eyes, as his lips take hers.

He mimics her chaste kiss, making her lean down to his face; withdrawing briefly so she can see the upward quirk of his mouth. Then she is drawn to him once more, this kiss is longer, with several nips in between, her head angling to the side slightly, so she has easier access to his lips.

She feels warmth spread through her from head to toe. Her head is a dizzy mess, and even more so, when he parts her lips. What was once chaste is deep, fuelled with longing and desire that she does not know how to account for. He starts to stand up, and soon her feet are connected to the floor, grounding her, but she cannot will herself to remove her lips from his.

Her hands reach up to his shoulders for secure footing, sliding around his neck, as she draws him down to her. A deep laugh escapes his mouth, and it thrills her.

She's never heard him give such a laugh before, never in class, and she's happy that she is the one who made him do so, even more so when his arms wrap around her waist, pulling her closer.

He tastes like heaven, like salt, like man, unfamiliar things, that cause giddiness to overtake her entirely. "Molly," he said between breaths, and she finds herself disentangling from him, taking a step back, aware of her surroundings.

"Oh," she said, embarrassed, taking to stare down at her bare feet, "I've just, never – well – sorry, sir."

She peeks up at him from under her brows, his stare is enquiring, and he briefly smiles, "Don't get _too_ carried away."

She instantly stares at his trousers, and his expression is that of exasperation, "That is nothing," he said, settling down with a great breath back into his chair.

He pulls her hand, aware of her sudden worry, folding it into his large one, and staring at it, "I did not ask for this," he said with a distant expression.

"What?" she said trying to calm down by breathing slowly, thinking only of the way his hand holds hers – warm and steady.

Blue eyes meet hers, frowning, he said, "Sentiment."

She doesn't understand, neither does she disentangle her hand from his, but she only longs for his lips on hers again. He seems to know her thoughts, his grip firmer on her hand, "I can kiss you in bed," he said breaking the silence, with his blue eyes piercing hers.

* * *

He takes her there, by hand, pulling her along slowly through the rooms, as he stops by the door. She walks towards the bed, settling down on the edge looking at him, and he shuts the bedroom door behind himself slowly, letting it creak. With parted lips, she takes in his unreadable face, and he strides towards her with long steps until he stops. Suddenly he is on his knees, his head on her lap.

Molly is surprised, but she lets her fingers tangle themselves in his hair. His soft muffled breath stays on her lap, warming her thighs, and minutes pass with him just laying there, heavy on her lap. She is not entirely certain what to say, though it finally comes to her.

Breaking the silence, _"Sherlock…"_

The transformation is instant; her back is on the bed, her breathing heavy, as he unwraps her clothing, parting the dressing grown from her, and letting air touch her body.

She's never been naked like this, so observed. He's taking in every detail, like she is much more than she seems on top of his bed, and that takes her breath away.

He is above her, his face intent and serious, and soon his mouth takes in parts of her body. First her lips, hovering down towards her neck, then between her breasts, then suckling at a nipple that is taut at his attentions, and he soon has her legs spread with his face burrowed between them.

She is worried at what he sees, almost closing her legs, though he has gripped her ankles, keeping her open and bare to him.

He leans in and kisses her there.

She gaps in shock for his kiss is hot, flooding her body, and his tongue swirls in her heat. She can only dig her fingers into the sheets of his bed, her eyes rolling back into her head, as his mouth laps her up.

His hand goes from gripping her ankles to roaming upwards her legs smoothly, soon clinging to her waist, pulling her closer to his face.

His mouth his sizzling, causing waves of emotions to flow through her body, until she cries out of pleasure, unlike any other. Minutes past; time, reason all dissipated from her, as her body laid boneless on the bed.

He is sitting besides her, his hand stroking her flushed body, and she felt her previous nerves disappear.

When she found her voice, small and tired, she asked, "Is it always this…this…good?"

Hand splayed out on her stomach, his face soon hovered above her face, dark curls tickling her forehead he murmured, "No."

He must have seen the worry in her eyes, the way her trembling hands drew the silk robe towards her body, but he stilled her hands, "I have never derived pleasure from the act, but with…" She stops her fidgeting, for the word is already out there, and hangs unsaid between them.

"Why?"

He changes at that question, blinking at her, his face turning sad, as he sits on the edge of the bed – his back facing her instead, "You should sleep," he said with a low voice, "It's late."

"But-," she protests the minute his weight leaves the bed, and he strides towards the door, "Until tomorrow. Goodnight, Molly."

The door opens and shuts, the distance between them feels large somehow, as she hears the sounds of him breathing outside the bedroom door. She wonders if it is taking him all his strength not to return, but sleep takes her despite her racing thoughts.

At least she isn't alone.


	6. Learning

**A/N: **Lo behold an update, love all the reviews! You're all so lovely. AussieMaelstrom continues to be an awesome beta, but I might have made a mess of it this time around. My brain got the better of me and tried to re-write, ugh. Thank you for continuing reading this story. Be aware that there are only in total 13 chapters. I will try to post everything in January.

* * *

**Learning:** the act or process of acquiring knowledge or skill.

No terrible unrest waited for her that night, no furious dreams, no long sighs, but she still awoke with a shudder. She felt like she had been observed, truly seen, and she knew not in what light. Sunlight jarred her eyes open, though they quickly slid shut to the temptation of continuing her dreamless sleep, her hands grabbing fistfuls of her duvet, as she rolled around in the bed. She recognised then that her fear of squashing Toby was for nothing, for while her limbs were invigorating themselves awake once more - she remembered these were not her sheets.

This was not her bed.

Neither was she wearing her striped pyjamas either.

It was her skin instead that felt the soft caress of the material surrounding her.

She sat up at that, staring wide-eyed around the room.

She is in his bedroom.

Professor Holmes' bedroom.

_Sherlock's_ bedroom.

He is not there, nor is the other pillow crumpled at her side, and she suddenly feels terribly small. It is not an unfamiliar feeling, though she had hoped he would have risked disturbing her, especially as she was mindful of last night's activities. A blush rose so quickly in her cheeks at the thought that she feels like mumbling an apology to the room.

When she manages to blink away her confusion, she spots her uniform folded on a chair. It takes her a brief moment to realise, amidst slipping out of the bed keeping the sheet snugly around her shape, that her clothes have been cleaned.

She fingers the dry fabric, picking her blouse up to smell the pleasant detergent. There is no clock in the bedroom, no way of telling how long she's slept, but she feels like she has slept forever.

For a few minutes she stands, comfortable in just the sheet, until she decides to dress. It is when she finds the strength to leave, despite her feet feeling heavy that she comes across the silk dressing gown discarded on the floor.

A wide smile blossoms on her face, as she picks it up, before laying the robe gingerly on the bed.

Her smile drops as she stares at it, and she starts to leave his bedroom, trying hard not to engrave any piece of it in her memory.

Molly reminds herself that there are other things to worry about, like her dad being home in the evening, and her cat Toby most likely in a bout of hysterics.

Toby was famous for his dramatics whenever she was away, turning tail towards her upon her return, though when she in turn ignored him he'd sprint along desperate for her touch. He was quite the sulky creature at times, and her mildly sleep-riddled mind made her compare him to her 'Professor'.

Realising she has just postponed her leaving, she rushes towards the door, but she still turns to view the room properly.

She must look, for this might be her only chance.

He doesn't have so many things there, unlike his sitting room, but he doesn't need to. His dark mahogany bed dominates with its intricate carvings, which she, if she had more time, would have studied.

There's surprisingly a framed picture of the periodic table upon the wall, but not much else to boast about. A desk is cluttered with papers, some of which she sees are essays, and there is a forgotten cup of coffee.

She touches the cup, her hand flinching in surprise at its heat.

He had been there.

He must have been marking essays, while she was asleep, and not too long ago. She stares at the cup for some time, finally deciding it is time to brave the other side, and she wonders if the reason she feels the room is 'empty' is due to him.

Upon leaving the room, she tries to resist mapping out the rest of the flat, and luckily the smell of a fresh brew of coffee distracts her from such a thing.

She doesn't feel hungry, just thirsty, and she feels a vague itch in her throat. Molly understands then and there why her vocal chords feel rather wretched, allowing herself to grin abashedly, as she tries to navigate herself around in the kitchen.

By use of some logic she does manage to find a clean cup in the cupboard above the sink, and steals away some of the coffee into the mug, "Good morning," said a voice.

Half-shocked she almost manages to drop the mug and the contents, but finds some calm upon finding his whereabouts.

And she realises he's been there the entire time.

He's leisurely sat with a book in his hands, his eyes on the pages, while she tries to cover her amazement by drinking from her cup. The only thing unfamiliar with the sight of him, are his clothes. He is wearing a deep blue cardigan over a white shirt, with a chequered tie of blue and green.

She has never seen him wear something so 'stuffy', and she wonders if he's at all slept. He looks relaxed, pristine and _quite_ English, throwing a stark contrast to the expression he starts to give her.

His gaze is intense, rather unnerving even, and she's blushing, she knows it. She holds up the cup, intent on keeping her mouth shut, as she doesn't entirely know what to greet in return, for it is in fact a _good morning._

Of course despite her better judgement, her nerves get the better of her, and her mouth shoots off, "I've got to go…my cat will be…worried." It sounds like a stupid excuse, besides absolutely idiotic. She wished she was clever, funnier, but she attempts to salvage the whole outburst with a mumbled, "Morning, sir."

He sets aside the book in his hand, giving her his full attention, as his hands stay on the arm-rests of the chair, "Molly, I am aware that it a foreign concept to you, but _sir_ – is not my name."

She repeated his actual name several times the night before, so it was certainly not unfamiliar to her, "Err – I know, it's just that-,"

"My chastising you for not calling me sir in class, of course," he said looking pensive, until his eyes are on her again, "You must learn to separate our moments to those in class."

"Our moments…sir?" she said, but it's an intentional slip of the tongue, for her smile is large now. She feels proud, a bit braver in his presence, almost rocking on her feet in excitement over his words.

She had been convinced he'd send her away, that he'd regret his actions, something she almost thought she would, but she could not find an ounce of regret in herself.

His brow is raised in brief amusement, "If you wish to continue – Miss Hooper with our - _reading_?"

"Yes, sir," she said, the words rushing out of her mouth, and she doesn't attempt to disguise her enthusiasm either.

She cannot do so now.

He picks up his book again, shielding his face, so she cannot see if he's pleased or not. She stands there for a minute or two, sipping on her coffee, aware of the silence, which isn't uncomfortable anymore, but when she finishes her cup – it becomes so.

She settles the empty cup by the kitchen sink, trying to busy her hands, as she attempts to find something to do. But there is nothing she can do - there is after all no reason for her to stay.

He is still sat reading quietly, his face hidden away, and his posture rigid. Molly half-expects him to do something, but she knows that their time is running out.

"I should go," she said restless, finding her feet, and walking to locate her shoes in the sitting room.

Amidst her rummaging, she hears sounds of movement, and her eyes turn towards him, while she slides on her shoes. She cannot stay, not any longer, and the clock warns her off such an idea, ticking ominously in the background.

There was no time in his bedroom, but time is now hounding her every movement.

He sat the book aside, his countenance quite serious, "Why?" he said rather quickly, looking just for a second disappointed.

She looks up in surprise, crouched on the floor tying her shoelaces. It almost seems like he's forgotten what she's said previously, and somehow she's glad, though saddened by his change of expression- "Toby gets quite upset – he's my cat," she said carefully, seeing annoyance flare up in his face, as she rights herself up from the floor.

"Yes, the ginger hair. I know," he said distractedly, turning silent, until he stands up, making her almost take a step back in surprise. There is something quite childish in his expression, but it alters so quickly to _something else_ she feels weak in the knees.

He is looking at her, not through her, but at _her._

Molly stands still, staring up at him, as he slides his arms around her waist, the heat of his body touching hers.

His face is inching closer to her face, eyes at her lips, "I understand that," he murmured, his breath dancing on her face.

She can count his eyelashes by how close he is; notice the alterations in his eyes, the darkness that seeps into them, the brief flicker to her lips, but when she feels surrounded by his warmth – he steps back instead.

It's cold again, and it is not relief that crashes into her, but frustration.

Molly stares at him with parted lips, struck dumb with confusion.

His eyes are fixed on the wall behind her, still like a statue, and she can see by the way his jaw clenches that he is under strain.

"We mustn't get carried away," he said slowly.

She blinks furiously at that, knowing all too well that they already have, and she crosses her arms in disbelief. "That's not fair, sir," she said in a small voice.

Her anger makes her turn her eyes to the floor, as she wonders if he's gotten what he wanted. Perhaps she _has_ been a fool, and has truly let herself be tricked.

And then she feels the weight of his finger underneath her chin, tipping her face upwards, and she sees the faint smile playing on his lips, "You expect a kiss, then?"

She knows that he doesn't mean 'kiss', purely by the way he said it, of how he lets the words hover in the air, and the blackness that flare up in his eyes.

"No, sir," she said quicker than she intends to.

His finger disappears.

She doesn't mean it like that, does not intend to sound like she's refusing him, but it does.

Anger briefly crosses his face, "Then leave Molly – attend to your cat," he said with a disgruntled expression.

She hesitates, "Go," he continued with a nod to the door.

"Ok," she said with a slight frown.

Intent on marching out rather angrily, she hears a muffled groan behind her. Her anger dissipates the second she feels him pull her by the waist, until her back is pressed flush against his chest.

His breathing is heavy, his body taut behind her, and she wonders how it would be to see him bare on his sheets.

No, she wishes, she wants.

Hands roam across the fabric of her uniform; his fingers easing open several buttons of her shirt, before he unhurriedly caresses the top of her breasts. She swallows at the heat that spreads from his touch, of the strength she feels he possesses, and the weakness he makes appear in her instantly.

His breath is on her neck, tickling her hair, as he proceeds to give a small chaste kiss below her ear, "Molly…if you do not leave now, I will not be able to let you go," he whispers.

Her knees almost buckle, her heart pounding furiously at the implication, as he twirls her around on the spot to face him. She is pushed up against him when his mouth seeks her out, searing with emotion so powerful she doesn't know if she can leave.

It's all she can do not to stay, small moans escaping her lips, as his mouth marks hers. He tastes so sweet, as she only wants to bring him closer by his tie, and allow him everything. Despite her emotions and body arguing with her, she manages to pull her lips away from his.

"I have to go," she said with a breathy voice, licking at her lips to salvage the taste of him.

He leans his forehead against hers, while his eyes look close to storms, but he does not release her, seeming reluctant to truly let her go.

"I know," he said in a low voice, nodding against her forehead, eventually freeing her.

The sudden loss of contact is not welcome, and her body yearns on the spot, but she knows it isn't goodbye, though she does not know when they will be together like this again.

She stands for several seconds, taking in his pained face, until he manages to school it into the one he bears in the classroom every day. Yet his eyes are not on her, they are pointedly at the door. Despite herself she quickly leans onto her toes, giving him a brief kiss on the corner of his mouth, before she runs away so he won't make her stay.

She swears she hears music the seconds she leaves, throwing her coat on, as she tries to remove herself from Baker Street before her strength abandons her. She is giddy with every step, foolish with every movement, wrapping her coat around her, amongst the sun that finally reflects the feeling in her heart.

* * *

Her legs are crossed on the bed, her nose stuck in a book, when she hears a familiar throat being cleared.

"So, had a nice weekend, then?" said her dad, still wearing his bomber jacket, "Hope you haven't stayed in the whole time?"

She grinned to herself, "Yeah," she said a bit distracted, petting Toby with her free hand, since he's finally allowing her the pleasure (like he assumes it is her who's mainly enjoying it).

"Alright, then –_ luckily_ - I won't be going off anytime soon," he said with a small laugh, and she finds herself looking rather distraught at that.

She only catches the back of her father disappearing, when she looks up feeling rather torn. It was sheer luck that had brought her to Sherlock, and she realised the likelihood of any such instance ever happening again.

Her father she couldn't exactly send off again, neither did she want to, but she knows she barely has any time off, except when she visits her granny's…

Molly spends the rest of her evening in a confused daze, replaying every instance of her 'moments' with her Professor, sensing the worry grow, as she understands those will be far apart.

But she has the fresh memories now, too new to discourage her, as she knows that no book would ever be comparable to those instances.

No, Poirot wasn't anything compared to Sherlock Holmes, she thought tossing the book in her hands aside.

* * *

Patches of ice crack underneath her bike's wheels, the frosty air blowing her hair aside, as she tries to steady herself with her rather faulty brake. The cold nips at her face, but despite that, her mind wanders, like it has most of the morning, reminding her of how she will cope with Professor Holmes in class now.

It will certainly be strange pretending that their relationship has not altered one square, when the mere thought of him gives her so much joy. She could scarcely eat or sleep, overwhelmed by that bubbling sense of giddiness in her stomach.

Things would certainly be different, though she would have to keep it a secret. Not that she had anyone to share this secret with. Molly grins over the thought that it is 'their' secret, and theirs alone, and she feels calmed down by that. Her bike hits another patch of ice much larger than the others, and she finds herself losing control speeding ahead, soon gripping tightly at the brakes.

And suddenly she's toppled right over her steering handles, throwing her off until she's flipped onto her back hard onto the asphalt. She gaps for breath, finding it hard then and there, as she hears the cars honk loudly in the distance. To her horror she sees one black car speed towards her, and she feels all of a sudden faint by its appearance.

* * *

He has an unlit cigarette in the corner of his mouth, eyes turning to her sitting in the passenger seat, "You sure you want me to take you to school, then?" he said in slight disbelief, as he drove at almost top-speed. She wonders if the buildings and trees are supposed to be that blurry, or if he is driving too fast.

She was lucky she hadn't been killed, she supposed, by the way he drove. When Molly had finally come to, after having an unfamiliar man smack her in the face several times (a wholly unpleasant affair), she awoke droning on about being late.

Of course, she'd be talking about that, which was a thing he'd mocked her for half-hysterical, she might add. She felt rather calm despite herself, brushing aside any attempts of being hospitalised. It was just a bit of a fall, after all, and people usually survived those.

"Yes," she moaned holding a hand to her head, "I'm alright. I'm just a bit put out – you don't need to drive me really."

"It's no problem, I almost drove _over_ you – so I'm bloody driving you to school," said the man named Richard Brook.

He'd been on his way to work, though her situation was too much for him to let her go on her own with a clear conscious. Though she felt his help went certainly further than needed, helping her lock her bike away nervously, as his attempt at jamming it in into the backseat of his car was unsuccessful.

She could have gotten there on her own; it was only the wind that had knocked her out a bit, but he wouldn't listen, "You've got a nurse, right?" he asked for about the tenth time.

"We do, but I'm fine," she repeated with a sigh.

The car halted with a stop outside of her school, and she found herself glad at the familiar sight. She gave a brief awkward nod to her driver, "Thanks, Richard," she said.

"You're welcome, Molly," he said with a grin, "And – err – sorry for almost-,"

"I'm alive, so it'll be fine," she said with a laugh about to open the car door, when Richard ran out of the driver seat opening the door for her. She frowned slightly, "Thanks," she said with a slight limp.

"Right – ok -," he said, hands on his hips, as he turned his head towards her school, "_Oh_ – right – my sister goes here."

"Oh," she said blinking stupidly for a second, trying not to put any more pressure on her one leg, "She does?"

"No wonder I knew where this was," he said with a shake of his head, ruffling a hand through his dark hair, "Well, I'll probably see you round – good luck," he said smiling at her, "Right – bye!"

Molly gave him a half-hearted wave when his car whizzed off, and she was left limping slowly to the school. Her leg did smart terribly; there was even a massive tear in her stocking, revealing that blood was sliding down her leg. She felt too weary and obstinate to even go to the nurse first, instead she slowly got herself to the classroom.

Her hand was covered in grime and blood she saw, as she started to reach out for the door handle – but the door opened before her, "And here is-," he was obviously preparing an ostentatious speech about her tardiness, having heard her slow progression in the hallway with his eagle-like hearing, though his face paled at the sight of her, "Mo – _Miss Hooper!"_

She had intended to open her mouth to protest at what he'd planned for her, her annoyance increasing, which she assumed had to do with the throbbing ache in her head, but his sudden outburst quickly silenced her.

"Class – read page 234 – and write your own opinion on the text. I will return after guiding Miss Hooper to the nurse," he barked quickly to the class, some of which were trying to have a look at her from their seats, but he ushered her out – banging the door shut behind them.

The change in his stern expression vanished, a quieter man almost taking his place, and she felt like crying, as suddenly everything felt more painful than before.

"Are you alright?" he said with a soft voice, taking her rucksack from her, and slinging it over his shoulder, "Lean on me."

"I'm fine-," she groaned, but she felt better the instant he allowed her to lean on him, " – I don't need to see the nurse."

"You fell off your bike then-," he said, his voice dripping with annoyance.

"Ye-," she tried to say, though he interrupted her, as he slowly steered her through the hallways.

"Do try to be aware of your surroundings, Miss Hooper, instead of letting yourself be distracted."

That was certainly easier said than done, for his very presence at the moment managed to distract her from the pain in her leg, and if that wasn't helpful she knew not what was. She tried to ignore the fact that her hand was wrapped around his waist for support, or the wiry strength that he displayed, as he easily got her through the hallways.

In the end, they were at Nurse Hudson's office doors, and he gave a sound knock raising a brow at her, which made her release her grip on him.

The door opened to show the old nurse, a pleased smile appeared on the woman's face at the sight of him, until the woman looked towards Molly rather aghast, "Oh dear."

Apparently she had blood on her face, having managed to smear some from her knee on her cheek, which Nurse Hudson cleared off, "You've just been through a shock, dear. No wonder Sherlock looked pale as death."

She tried to disguise her surprise, as the woman had said his first name without any attempt at propriety, though the woman only beamed at her reaction, "Oh, I used to watch over him as a child – I was the one who got him the job. Never gotten used to calling him _Professor_ Holmes though," the old woman said with a laugh, clearing the dirt from Molly's knee with a swab.

"Right…" said Molly, as Nurse Hudson put a bandage on her knee. She realised just then how little she truly knew of the man, and she'd been in his home.

He was of all things still a mystery to her.

There was a knock on the door, and a girl in the same year as Molly entered looking rather agitated. Her eyes turned huge when she spotted her, only calming down when Nurse Hudson appeared by her side. The girl kept her voice low, with Nurse Hudson nodding silently in return, until she covertly handed the girl something.

It looked like a box of pills.

The girl left quickly at that, and Molly was left with the nurse, "I'm just waiting for the time they'll allow it to be used in the open, which will probably be soon," said Hudson with a shake of her head, "I've seen too many young girls get into trouble…you haven't got a lad, have you?"

She found herself saying yes, building upon the lie about _Jim_, "Just be sure he's clean," Nurse Hudson had said to her in a low voice, as she handed her a box, "And mind you, if anyone finds out I'll most likely get sacked. Though, I'd rather be if people are going to be stuffy about it," said the old woman with a smile.

* * *

Molly missed English of course, and spent most of her time limping towards the rest of her classes, with some of her classmates asking what had happened. When it turned out to be merely an accident, people lost interest, and she didn't feel like going on about it either. She didn't need their sympathy, she'd been stupid at best, and would like to forget it as quickly as possible.

However, the second classes were done for the day, and she realised she'd have to be walking home in what would be presumably the slowest pace, she'd been horribly frustrated. It did come close to her annoyance, of having not seen hide nor hair of Professor Holmes since he dropped her off at the nurse.

Walking along Molly grumbled slightly at every step, hoping to find her bike soon along her path, though she knew she'd barely manage to take it with her in any case, when on the road she saw a familiar car stop at her side. She halted in her step staring when Professor Holmes pushed open the door, "Get in," he said in a stern voice, while she grimaced at him.

"I can walk," she said intending to move along, only to have her leg be rather difficult at that, and she reluctantly limped into his car, "Ok," she said softly, as she sat in the passenger seat.

He snorted slightly, "Now, was that so difficult?"

Sat with crossed arms, she turned her head at him, "I thought we weren't supposed to give the impression…of anything."

"School is out for the day."

"I know it is, sir," she said with a sigh, as he started to drive off.

She kept her eyes out of the window, though her mind struggled to find why she was in fact angry with him, but she realised she was more cross with herself than anything. Now she was wasting an opportunity by sulking, though she knew that she couldn't do anything untoward. After all, there were people walking along the pavement and streets. None of these people knew of their situation, or that this was her professor and his posh car. He wasn't supposed to be able those sort of things, including his clothes due to his low wages.

There were too many things to consider, too many holes surrounding the man that made her wonder – including Nurse Hudson. The more she learned about the man, the less she knew.

She sniffled slightly, leaning against the window avoiding his eyes, as she said, "Are you driving me home?" She knew he was, though she wanted to pretend he wasn't. She wanted to pretend she was free to go - to say - to do anything she wanted.

"Yes."

His answer was brief and terse, spoken out of the corner of his mouth, without his eyes zoning in on her. Sitting upright in the car seat, she stole a glance at him, "Can't we-," she started, feeling almost like a petulant child. She knew she was being difficult, but she'd always been rather too good in her own opinion.

This was one of the few occasions they were alone, and this was once again due to an accident (though more literal this time). Stealing glances at him at school wouldn't be enough, not when there was always the chance to get to touch him, to feel his body firmly underneath hers. The idea itself made her feel rather foolish, like it was a giddy schoolgirl infatuation, but it was oddly enough requited. Being in his presence more would probably explain why, she supposed, or liked, as an excuse.

"No," he said quickly.

"Why not?" she said staring at him fully, taking in his profile, admiring him from where she sat.

"You live with your father."

It was a statement, not a question, but she answered it nonetheless, "Yes…"

"And you've most likely considered the repercussions – if _we_ are not careful." They were '_we'_, they were something, beyond professor and student, and that excited her beyond words.

She was tired, of course, it would be illogical not to go home to rest, but she wanted him there with her. His presence was in itself soothing, his voice even now making her eyelids flutter half-shut.

He gave a sigh, yanking her out of her dreamy fluttering's. He turned the car in such a sharp way, driving a path she didn't fully recognise. Until the car was suddenly parked, and shielded by thick trees, with barely a sprig left on the twigs.

Blue eyes turned to her, amused and rather exasperated, like she is a problem to be solved, and he's suddenly adjusting the seat. She squeaks loudly when she finds herself reclined on her back.

For a second she's confused, until he does so with his own seat, and he grabs her to him, letting her rest on his warm chest.

Swallowing down the shock and the oncoming laughter, she said, "Why?" peering up at him.

"It seemed logical," he said with a tilt of his head, his eyes bearing down upon her, as she feels him breathing underneath her hands.

She allowed a grin to escape, though quickly adapts a serious expression, "Ok."

"We only have five minutes before your father will get suspicious."

Molly lifts up her head curiously, "Have you followed me around?"

"No…" he said, and she wonders if the conversation has ended, until he adds, "But I have seen you."

"You've _seen _me?" she said confused.

"Yes."

"What does that mean?"

"That your father has a right to be concerned…"

She understands then, by the way he looks at her, taking to rest properly on his chest, her cheeks pink, as his hand gently strokes her hair, slipping strands of hair through his fingertips.

"He's not even home," she said, and suddenly his hand stops.

"Oh," he said rather quietly.

"He's working a bit late today," she said recounting their discussion at breakfast, though she never thought she'd have several minutes to spare in Professor Holmes' car. She wonders how he knows things anyway, "When you were on the tube, that was an accident, right? Since you haven't actually been following me?"

"I haven't-,"

"Because that would be odd."

"I had a doctor's appointment," he said rather slowly, his hand tracing measured circles on her back.

"Are you sick?" she asked.

"I have been."

"Oh – but you have to see your doctor every week?"

"My brother insists," he said, and she can hear the annoyance in his voice.

"You have a brother? He's not that friend-,"

"That's John."

"Doctor Watson?"

"Yes."

"Is he your doctor?"

"No."

She is looking up at him now, smiling stupidly, as she sees his brows knitting at the questioning, "Is he a very good friend?"

"Yes."

"Does he know?"

"That he is my friend?" he said frowning at her, smirking slightly, "You haven't said your father isn't home, so you can ask all of these questions?"

"No," she said reaching her hand out to touch his face. He gives a deep breath at that, seeming surprised, even unfamiliar to the feeling, as she takes to stroke his brow, letting her finger slide across it gingerly.

"Have you had many?" she said not sure where she had the bravery to ask such a question, it's like she's stolen some from him.

"What?" he said gently, with slightly narrowed eyes, looking a bit ruffled now, like she's trodden too far into the abyss, and after this there is no recovery.

She almost feels like taking it back, shaking her head, but she doesn't. With her hand on his cheek she said, "Women."

His nostrils flare, his eyes unreadable, and she lets her hand fall, pulling it to herself, but he takes it. He cradles her hand in his, touching the tip of her nails, as he then said, "No."

It is said so quietly, that she barely believes it, and her brazen, "Really?" sounds like it touches a nerve in both of them, the pit of her stomach reeling from the impact, "But…" she begins, trying to salvage it, mimicking his voice.

"I have imagination."

She blinked, distracted by the light caresses he gives her hand, as he brings it up to his mouth – brushing a kiss over the knuckles, "And I am quick learner," he said with a furrow of his brows, and a twinkle in his eyes.

Gaping, she takes a breath, "Err – how old are you?" she said, steering the conversation elsewhere, not knowing if this is her last moment with him, or not. They are _there_, though, and that can all dissolve in a heartbeat. She wants to remember so terribly – _this _– for everything she's ever liked, or loved – gets wrecked, in some way or the other. The memories are usually all that remains.

"26," he said seeming pleased by the change of direction, though he rolls his eyes ever so slightly.

"You're not that old then."

"How old would that be?" he said gripping at her arms, dragging her closer to him, so she is but inches from his face.

He leans towards her, his lips nipping lightly at hers, "Old," she said distractingly, her lips trembling at the little impact from his.

His brow is raised, his expression mock seriously, "That would be quite old," he murmured, his eyes turning dark, as they wander down to her lips.

He makes a path with his lips on her mouth, marking and branding them his. Tingles flow throughout her, spurred on by the fleeting brushes, to the breathless kisses that damn her. Her hand is wrapped around his tie, tearing at the fabrics, wishing it gone, as her lips search his.

This is the only thing that exists, no past, no future, no terrible lies, no truths, and she allows herself to dive into it, thoroughly enjoying the sweep of his tongue against hers.

She moans against his mouth, spurring him on, as she sits on top of him, his hands flush on her hips. It is uncharted territory, her skirt riding up briefly, as she realises the growing frustration underneath her.

This awakens her, bringing her back to the present, with his mouth pressed passionately against her neck, biting her lightly.

Heat floods her desperately, clinging under her aching skin, and she wants to bite back the words, but still, "Sir."

He turned stiff at those words, though he makes a throaty noise, only to kiss her below her ear, his hands stroking the sides of her shirt, edging towards the underside of her breasts, "Sir-,"

His hands are at firmly at her hips, static, as he pulls back from her enquiringly, "Yes, Molly?"

She clears her throat; "You have to drive me home. He'll know if I'm a bit late," she said knowing her father all too well, feeling the flair of disappointment in her stomach.


	7. Suppressed

**A/N: **Thank you to _hedilein_ who betaed this chapter because I wanted it out and about! Thank you for the reviews as always, you're all terribly sweet and write better reviews than the actual story. Read on!

* * *

**Suppressed: **To deliberately exclude (unacceptable desires or thoughts) from the mind.

She can see her house in the distance. Lights flooding out revealing the little dishevelled excuse of a garden, unfairly robbed of its pleasing appearance by the frost lingering in the air (no flower would enter there more, due to the loss of her mothers hands). It is the same cold that ends up hitting upon her skin, as she withdraws from the warm confides of his car. Her hand is positioned on the handle, lingering, letting the cold rush in. Unlike her, he looks unmoved, his eyes steering themselves to her house almost mechanically, "Your father is home," he said.

Molly wonders if he will brave one last look at her, for she is unable to look away from him, but he finally meets her eye.

The short glance only makes her insides twist, "Ok," she said.

She wishes she had not _left him so unsatisfied_, the words of the bard echoing in her head. Not long since were those hands holding hers, grazing her fingertips, and holding the back of her head to edge her lips closer for a _sinful _kiss.

They are not lovers, not yet, but she wants him to seem more affected, to be on the precipice just as she is. But it's a change she knows must come, one she instigated with her own clarity. He must keep a distance, though she has never been fond of goodbyes, and this is one she could do without. The second she thinks so the engine awakens, reviving her senses, as she slams the door shut.

In the end she only sees the backlights, her hand edging upwards for a wave that falls short to her side, as she tugs her coat nearer, sheltering herself from the cold.

His abrupt coldness makes the winter's gradual return seem colder, but she knows it is not without point – though she hears a car-horn sound in the distance. A smile returns to her face, bearing witness that despite his cool manner, it is not his wish to depart so grim. Her steps towards the house are light despite her limp, keys soon jingling soundly in her hands, until she sees lights, and the door bursts open, "Dad?" she said taking a step back in surprise.

His body is half-way out of the door, pushing her aside, as he narrows his eyes upon the almost barren road, "That's a smart car," he said gaping, "Is he posh?"

"Umm – err – no – no – it's his – err – dads!" she cried out flabbergasted, soon shoving her father indoors, with him still trying to look out, clearly to infuriate her, and not to scare the living daylights out of her, like he is.

She is rather glad she has 'Jim' to lean back upon, _her boyfriend_, as her father has now started to take upon spying through the drapes, a scheme she'd never assume he'd ever undertake, "I'm just curious that's all," he exclaims, as she ushers him further in, away from the door and the windows.

She would rather he not jot down the licence plate, for she wouldn't find it entirely unprecedented if he did – for they'd only ever seen such an exclusive car in pictures after all. Considering his extensive reading of crime-novels he would 'deduce' that Professor Holmes was a master criminal of some sort.

Her legs smarts the second she gets him into the sitting room, pushing him into his regular maroon chair, but she tries to ignore the sudden sting, "What's happened to you?" he said staring at her bandaged knee.

He's on his feet instantly, seeking out her leg, and staring at it, "Are you alright?" he asked giving her an once-over.

"Fell off Stella this morning – that's why – he – err – drove me," she said finding some relief in another lie. They were starting to become building blocks these lies, and she wondered whether they'd start to dissemble any day soon, "I thought you'd be home later…" she starts about to move away, hoping the discussion will end squarely there.

"So – that's your mysterious Jim?" he asked.

She feels the blood rush out of her head instantly, prickles appearing in her cheeks, "He's – he's not mysterious," she blurted out, a tiny giggle escaping her lips, barely masking her wrecked nerves.

"Only saw the back of his head, if that's what you're worried about," he said with a wide grin, "Now - are you going to have him over soon, or will that be when he asks for your hand?"

Somehow the fact that he finds it at all comical makes ice grow in her stomach. Not that she would ever think…not that she could ever see…She does not know what is in store, what the future might bring, for she barely sees the solid ground underneath her feet as it is, gravitating between wonder, lust and confusion.

"I – I – don't know dad…he's very - _very _shy," she said avoiding his eyes, as he abruptly stops laughing taking in her most likely all-too solemn face.

She cannot keep herself from looking put out, the entire idea feels rather impossible, and she is somehow assured by the lurch in her stomach that her father and Professor Holmes will never meet.

He seems to understand by her look that he has to change the topic, and he nods towards her leg instead, "You got fixed up by a nurse?" he said, and she is relieved that he is letting it go. Despite him reminding her of the most likely highly illegal contents in her rucksack (of which he would certainly not approve).

"Yes, at school," she said with a nod, paying the wallpaper a bit more fervent interest than usual, as if the 'pills' would jump out from her rucksack displaying themselves to her father.

She could only imagine his look of horror at the sight, though perhaps he would never question them, and assume they were just recommended for a headache (after all that's what they started as).

"Good…good," he said his eyes going above her head as well, until one of his large hands covered her shoulder, "Just be careful, Molly."

"Careful?" she said anxiously, when he releases her shoulder rather quickly.

"You know these city-boys…they can easily get distracted," he said leaving her alone in the sitting room to more unwanted thoughts.

* * *

She allowed the fanciful thoughts of secret kisses to consume her, though they do not take place. He doesn't act in any way she could condemn as irregular. Somehow it annoys her, even more when her leg heals quickly. It was only a minor dent in her amour. A scrape that she could brush off, and she does, but it did not warrant for any more trips in his car.

He hadn't offered any more either, and she takes to use her legs, instead of her bike due to the sudden snow.

"I haven't seen a winter like this in years," her father would say, each morning as he either dropped her off, or she sprang out unreasonably early.

She knew she moved quicker at the thought of seeing him, hoping he'd do anything forbidden, but she wishes she were braver at school.

There are no incidents that pull him to her side, but she schemes plentiful in her head.

They are elaborate, silly and barely scraping the barrel of truth. Instead she digs her hands into her books, her work, and her words. It's remarkable how just a week or two without him seems to lengthen, almost extending into years, and it seems to be the longest of winters.

She knows she is being foolish, demanding she wrench her head out of the clouds, as her mind wanders from the book she holds in her hands.

Molly has taken to sit on a bench that she knows is within his regularly scheduled 'walk'. For a man who is so changeable, he likes to adhere to certain rules. He only ever gives her small looks at best, not exchanging any long ones, while she gives him her full attention.

She realised to her pleasure that she could act like one of the lovelorn pupils without consequence; almost hoping her staring would break him out of his reverie. But at the school he is a saint, still sharing his books, but those exchanges are certainly less intimate by far. One could almost conclude he was truly attempting to keep her away, but she is not so daunted outside the school grounds.

She speaks, telling too much of herself, yearning for him to go on, but he only observes her mutedly in the short train rides. She doesn't understand why he is keeping his tongue now, why he suddenly has seemed to shy away from her, and she hopes there is a good reason as to that – "Good book?" a voice said.

Molly looked up from the pages of her book in surprise, she had barely taken in a word, and so it makes no difference for her at the interruption, but the questioner is, "Mr Brook?" she said, "Richard?"

He has a cigarette at his lips again, lit this time, the cigarette fumes lingering around his face, as his black eyes widen in good humour. "Sorry, couldn't help myself-," he said, soon sitting besides her on the bench, his legs spread wide, as he leans towards her a little, "Just visiting my little sister Irene, and saw you sitting here. You probably enjoy the company of books better, though?"

Richard leans away from her again, aware that he's broken into her space, and she feels immensely relieved by this action, "Oh, no, it's alright," she said lowering the book to her lap, squinting a bit against the stream of sunlight that has by some luck hit the school grounds for once.

Richard's dark eyes follow, "Victoria by Knut Hamsun?" He pronounced the name terribly wrong, but she does not correct him, "You're clever, then?"

She doesn't know how to answer that question, her mouth hovering between close and open, as her hand touches the hard surface of the book cover.

It was her Professor's whose books had gone from being salacious to amorous, if she dare even think it.

"Obviously you are," he said with a wink, "Knee better?"

"Yes – thanks– it was really nice of you."

"It's what any _Good Samaritan_ would do, honestly," he said, "At least I do hope they would, you know."

"I would."

"I'm not surprised, you seem nice," he said with a pointed stare.

She looked away at that, "I've got to go in," she said feeling oddly unsettled, standing up from the bench, but his eyes follow her too.

It's an eerie sensation, unlike when Sherlock observes her, and she doesn't know what she feels about it. Yet she doesn't at all feel he is interested in her.

"Good idea – it's freezing – _well_ - good morning, Molly," he said standing up, raising his brows at her, before he strode along – throwing his cigarette aside on the ground.

* * *

"Detention, Miss Hooper," shouted Professor Faulkner, his eyes slits, spittle flying out of his mouth, as she flinched heavily in her seat, trying to argue her point.

No one came to her assistance however, all of them hunched silently, as she just pressed her lips tightly together.

His exact words had been, "No woman would be fit in a higher position, such as a doctor."

Her hand had darted upwards, and of course she stated on what had previously been a brief thought in her mind, that she now certainly felt keen on obtaining as her future vocation, "And you would not feel _faint_ at the sight of a mangled corpse?" He directed his smarmy expression to the class, sniggering at her, attempting to bring the class on his side.

"No more than you, sir," she quipped.

His face turned red, as the entire class laughed, though she did not end her speech there, "There is no one who instantly come within contact with a dead body without becoming sick at the sight, to_ begin_ with sir, but we all become accustomed to the oddest of things-,"

"Silence – Miss Hooper – I do not need to hear anymore excuses from you – your marks might be adequate, but there are few schools that would take you in, depending on your sex."

"So, by that logic, I would be accepted, hadn't it been for the fact that I am a woman?"

She could see the nerve popping out in his forehead, she knew she had to be silent, but she couldn't. Everyone seemed to allow him to think such medieval views it was terrible.

"Yes," he spat.

She snorted, "Well, then I will falsify my application."

"You will do no such thing!" he said in outrage, "End of discussion, Miss Hooper!"

Molly then proceeded to say a string of words that were certainly not represented in any of their schoolbooks, and got a gasp from her class. She had certainly gone too far, but it was worth it. A detention from him however, wouldn't be a joyous evening, as he would certainly try to lure out any other word from her, so he would have the pleasure of having her in another round of detention.

The second she got into the appointed room, she was surprised to find Professor Holmes talking with Faulkner, the pair of them looking rather severely at her entry. However to her surprise Faulkner turned to her, "Important matters have been brought to my attention, and I am grieved to say that Professor Holmes will take over this evening – with grim displeasure, I am sure."

"Yes – Miss Hooper is certainly a _handful_," said Sherlock with such an air, causing her throat to dry.

If he actually agreed with the horrid man, all that was between them would turn dead in seconds, and she'd never look at him with a fond eye anymore.

Faulkner gave a brief nod to Holmes, before promptly sneering at her, banging the door shut behind him.

Molly drew back her shoulders, meeting his eyes expectantly, "What am I to do, sir?" she said with a business-like-tone.

He raised a brow, "Where did you learn that word?" he said carefully, leaning the palm of his hands on the desk that he stood behind. His usually impeccable attire was slightly un-done at the top buttons of his shirt, his hair a ruffled entangled mess, if she weren't so nervous at the outcome of his questioning – she'd be humming in silent pleasure, "Miss Hooper?"

She swallowed slightly, ignoring her own flush; "I read it in a book once."

"Which one would that be?"

She smiled foolishly, "One of yours, sir."

"You put it to good use, then," he said standing upright, hands in his pockets, "So, what exactly do you do – during detentions?"

She blinked, "You're – you're not angry?"

"I have several words regarding Faulkner – first being idiot – and the others variations upon that – but – what do you in fact do during these late hours of the day?"

"Things I wouldn't regularly do during class," she said, her eyes turning down to the floor, only looking up when she heard him locking the door.

"This will not be your ordinary detention," he said with a severe expression, "John regularly assists me in this dull work, but I think – you will do quite nicely."

"What?" she said gaping, as images were quickly conjured in her mind without her managing to steer them away.

Professor Holmes smirked, stepping away from the door, before he walked off to the desk bringing forth a large stack of papers, "Grading papers, _Miss_ Hooper. I'd rather not have us interrupted," he said rather cheekily.

He knew her mind had been in the gutter, "Oh," she said shielding her disappointment terribly, since there were enough colourful stories to read regarding late night detentions, and 'rulers' being aptly used in these instances.

"I think my _colleagues _would frown on the fact that I'd allow one of my top students to mark the papers of her peers," he said with a tentatively raised brow, placing the papers down on the other end of the desk, gesturing for her to sit down at the chair in front of it.

She didn't know how dull work it was, correcting others papers, fixing their grammar. Trying not to laugh at the terrible imagery some of them would use, or the large words, which would be good, if they hadn't used them incorrectly.

Molly found herself giggling once in a while, occasionally looking up, as Professor Holmes worked at top-speed. He barely looked at the pages, before his pen dashed quickly across them, revising, and marking them, finishing off his pile much quicker than her.

She expected him to start helping her with her own large one, but he silently brought out a book instead – _Lady Chatterley's Lover._

He didn't look up, turning the pages at an excruciatingly slow pace, unlike his marking, and she tried not to look. He must know what that book now meant to her, so this was his punishment for her staring.

Instead of seeming affected, she gripped firmly at her pen, focusing her attention on the papers.

"We might have to be here all night at the speed you are working in," he said turning a page, causing her to look up frowning at him.

"You could help, sir."

"I have already done my portion of the work."

He was such a confusing man. One moment he would be whispering things into her ear, his hand skirting up her inner thigh playfully, and then he would seem quite different. However he had done none of those things of late, now it was only her imagination acting against her, "Whom were you speaking with at lunch?" he said startling her.

"Sorry?"

"The man. Lower-class bred with round shoulders and a nicotine addiction that occupied the bench with you."

His eyes were not on her, they were on the pages of the book, but they were not sweeping over the words at all.

"Are you jealous?" she said baffled.

He looked up with narrowed eyes, "No."

"Ok," she said slowly, continuing with her work.

Several minutes past, the topic dissolving, or so she thought, until he spoke again, "Do you intend to answer the question?" His annoyance was shielded rather poorly.

"I would rather finish, sir," she said keeping her eyes down on her papers, marking the page off, before continuing with another.

"Enough," he said reaching for the pen in her hand.

She drew her hand back, "No, I intend to finish it, sir," she said quietly, "It's not terrible work, after all."

He snorted, "Molly."

She looked up, allowing the pen to lie on top of the papers, as he looked at her intently across the desk. His mouth was pressed together in a thin line; she could see he was thinking, trying to make out what to say.

Before, she always assumed that adults knew what to say in every occasion, but in the end she understood that there was no real difference between any of them. When he didn't hasten to speak, she spoke, "He drove me to school when I got into my accident on the bike – his sister goes here, so…he just said hello."

"Sister?" said Professor Holmes with a peculiar expression on his face.

"Yes, some girl by the name Irene apparently, must be someone under my year. I know no one by that name, at least not going by Brook."

"Ah," said Sherlock leaning back into his chair, falling silent, and she is curious at what he makes of the information.

Minutes pass, so she asks the question that remains more in her mind than the other, "Will you admit to being jealous, sir?" she said returning to the marking, stifling her laugh with a bite of her lip. He is silent however, her laughter vanishing, as she catches the dark look in his eyes.

Only a small squeak is emitted from her mouth the second she is dragged out of her chair, and pushed on top of the desk, papers and objects underneath her. Her back feeling the hard surface, as he is stood between her spread legs, "Prof-," she attempted to exclaim.

She was never given a chance as his mouth met hers, his hands digging into her clothes, as he held her tight towards him. It was beyond desperate, the one thing she had wanted from him for what seemed to be ages, and she felt the ache in her chest increase by the fervour that his lips met hers.

She has missed the taste of him, easing her mouth open to his, moaning against his lips, unable to help herself, as she lets her nails dig into his back.

It's wrong, so absolutely wrong of them to do something there, and it seems he becomes yet again aware of the fact by breaking away from her.

He's licking at his lips, "Don't bite your lip in front of me," he said in a gravelly voice, stepping backwards, "Go home, Miss Hooper – I'll finish the rest alone."

She opens her mouth to protest, but the stern expression in his eyes softens, "We can't," he finished. She knows they can't, he's already broken one rule quite heavily, and so she escapes the room not long after.

* * *

Weeks fly past so quickly.

December intrudes upon them with its garish red imposing her home, the pine scent persistent in the sitting room. There are only a few things that drift through her mind throughout the passing days, constant and unchanging.

He should not have kissed her.

She replays the moment often, reliving in the forbidden splendour of the brief touch and pleasure he elicited in her by the ardour of his supressed passion.

Reading became a chore, worse than ever, for her fantasies of other detention increased by every attempted turn of the page. He did not give her any more books, and she suspected it was not because of her agitation, but the workload that cluttered her desk.

She knows if her mind was away from the clouds she would not long for detention, no, and surely fortune would not put him before her once more. It was wretched to have something and have it taken away.

Even worse to have it stand in the background, a constant reminder without ever being able to speak alone, without the fear of breaking the 'rules'. For she wants to break every rule in the book, bend them until they evaporate from the pages, and she has him fully.

For there is a strain upon him, invisible strings pulling at his shoulders, though his behaviour is not at all unfavourable in class. He is everyone's favourite once more, but certainly easily irritated by ignorant questions.

Molly knows her body language displays her frustration quite broadly during his classes, especially in the one he is orchestrating now.

Once more she is stroking at her lips, gnawing, biting – until her lips are flushed and swollen. She does not do it consciously, not often at least, but she finds a faint blush in his cheeks.

Today however he is the imagery of professionalism, not even looking at her as he addresses the class, avoiding any chance glance, "Miss Hooper?" said his voice, calling her out amidst her thoughts, another class of his where her mind drifted off of late, ironic that all the thoughts careen towards him.

She blinked up at him, suddenly aware that she had been unabashedly staring, "Err – yes, sir?"

Laughter rose up in the classroom, others taking delight in her being a dolt, "Welcome back, Miss Hooper, now tell me – what are the major themes in Anna Karenina? Since we have you here."

He looked positively gleeful, eyes thoroughly amused, as she straightened up in her seat, "Well…I'd say it's the social change in Nineteen-century Russia," she said slowly.

She hears the displeased mutters, the laughter falling short immediately.

He frowns slightly, almost sullenly, the closest to 'non-professional' she has found in him of late, but she would have an answer ready. They'd been reading it for the last week, her fellow classmates gushing over it, while she was grieved by Anna's demise, that she saw no other way out of her troubles.

It was a means to an end more than anything - suicide.

To be frank, she was surprised they at all had it in their syllabus, it wasn't exactly _English_, but she suspected that he had argued the books importance.

"Correct," he said with a sigh, directing another question to a less dreamy student.

She only grinned at that, the smile disappearing, as she realised the – _time_ – this was their last class of the year. A fact she had not allowed herself to grumble too much about, essays and tests having managed to distract her properly, until her hand cramped from all the notes she'd been taking.

Molly's brown eyes darted to the almost snowed down windows. London was cloaked in white snow, with sudden bouts of icy rain - it was certainly more picturesque. When her mind finally resurfaced to her surroundings, she found class had ended. Students were already on their way out, and she rushed out of her seat, intending to have some few phrases with him, but when she caught sight of his desk – it was already vacant.

He had already left.

She packed quickly, students and professors wandering in the hall, while she stood upon her toes trying to catch a glimpse of his curly dark hair.

He was nowhere to be seen, not even giving her the chance of saying 'goodbye'. What chance would she have to see him during her holidays? Her traditions and duty as a daughter were too sacred to break. The halls emptied out, echoes of footsteps the only thing remaining.

She started to leave; disappointment rattling her, while she shrugged into her thick coat, hoping it was a good enough hurdle against the cold.

He probably had family to visit, most likely, but the thought only made her pose more questions. She still did not have enough answers, her curiosity still raised, and his persona still an enigma.

Molly stumbled slightly in her walk, the lace of her shoe loosening making her rucksack tumble out of her hands. With a supressed groan she bent down to pick up the offending leathery sack, the books almost bursting out of the seams.

This was her mistake.

She heard the quick creak of the door behind her, though her reflexes did not kick in fast enough, as she felt a pair of strong hands drag her by the waist into the offending room – a broom closet.

Molly only yelped in surprised, a squeamish little cry, which certainly did not scare her accoster. His hand was firmly pressed against her mouth, muffling now all continuing sounds that she made to exclaim that something was amiss.

And then she recognised him, strangely by his smell in the dark surroundings of the small space.

He was in essence; a faint whiff of tobacco ash, a tender droplet of cologne, and ink, besides the pleasant allure of his natural musk. Despite her assumption of his professionalism and restraint, this was evidence of the contrary, especially by the way his arousal was blatantly pressed up against her through the fabric of his trousers.

He still did not remove his hand, as he murmured into her ear, "You have to learn to cross your legs."

His breathing was rushed, his grip on her strong, as she had her back pressed against him, "I can't be the only one who looks," he said in a dark voice, like he was about to punish her.

Her knees weakened at such an exclamation; certainly already weak by the way he surrounded her.

He helped her out of her coat, making her face him in the darkness, which she could only blink against. His mouth found hers before she'd made her bearings, the taste of his lips so eerily delicious and welcome that all thought dissipated.

She had missed him, missed the way his mouth nipped at hers, until it all become a throng of deep searing kisses, that had her pressed upon the wall, his knee parting her legs. He was keeping it as chaste as possible, his hands dangerously skirting places, touching briefly her chest, but focusing entirely on her mouth, as she let her hands wander over his firm torso.

The second her hands wandered lower, gripping at the lining of his trousers – he held both her hands in a vice grip above her head, as he tortured her by prolonged kisses at her neck.

He suddenly stopped to her horror, his breath on her face, "Are you staying home?" he whispered.

"Yes."

"Good," he said releasing her wrists, and taking a step back from her, "I suspect you can't visit."

"No," she said hearing the gloomy way she'd uttered it, "Dad is going to be home all of Christmas."

"I thought as much -," he started, and she knows he's going to leave, knew that this was it for now, but she does not want it to be.

"Are you going to visit your family?" she said prolonging the moment, at least for a little while.

"No."

"Oh – why not?"

"We don't do Christmas."

"OK…so you're going to be alone?"

"There is nothing wrong with being alone, Molly. Now go… enjoy your Christmas."

It doesn't sound like it, for her it sounds like he is used to it, a thought she doesn't enjoy. No one should be alone at such a time, especially him, since that is not a thought she can enjoy.

"Please don't be alone," she said, finding his face in the dark, holding him in place, "It's Christmas."

"I'll be fine."

She drops a kiss at the corner of his mouth, tender and short, as she then speaks the words that she wished could be given in the open, "Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

Molly feels the tilt of his lips at her uttering his name, yet she cannot stay to feel the aftereffects, rushing out with her coat in hand. She finds her neglected rucksack, bending down once more, giving a tiny chuckle, before she gathers it up.

Moisture springs to her eyes, making her insides feel heavy, despite lightness poking at them. She walks away for that's the only thing she can do, besides hope.


	8. Punishment

**A/N: **Ah! Things came up! Stuff! Problems. _Things. _AussieMaelstrom worked in a speed I have never seen. Lovely woman! Thank you all who still read and etc - you're all lovely people. It's amusing to think that people actually get excited about this story, thank you for that. I am the manifestation of cringing self-doubt, but I hope you enjoy this chapter!

* * *

**Punishment:** a penalty inflicted for an offense, fault, etc.

_Time._ When she was a little girl she'd struggled with learning the clock and understanding 'time'. The concept had struck a cord with her little mind. This was a story her father often retold. "Why?" she'd asked repeatedly according to her father, "Why?"

She hadn't understood, 'why was she supposed to understand it after all', and her father had only managed, "Because…_because _that's how we know…" he had begun. He'd always get wet at the corner of his eyes every time he retold the story. Despite the fact that she knew every detail, every pause by heart - she would do the same as well.

"What?" she prompted him, as she was apparently brasher when she was a little girl, always running around laughing with her eyes glittering.

"Time."

The answer had only upset her, making her cry a great deal until her mother had held her. She had encircled her with her long slender arms, "Molly…" she said in her soft voice, "When I was a little girl…I was so upset I smashed all the clocks in the house – every single one of them – except the grandfather clock – that one I couldn't reach." Her father would laugh every time at that part, the lines by his eyes growing, "You see, people created time so they could be stuffy and tell people off for being late. Now – don't you want to be silly and tell them off too?"

_Time._ That's all her mother had needed.

Her mother had only needed a few more minutes; perhaps a few seconds and she would have been at the restaurant. It was the twenty-second of December, a day Molly remembered vividly. Every detail became significant that day, because it wasn't an ordinary day, it was the day her mother died.

Minutes would have made a difference, seconds would have had as well, but the outcome was still the same. She had still stepped out of the door that day, and that car had still hit her.

Her father had gone ahead about twenty minutes before her mother, as she was still searching the house, "My blue earring? Have you seen it? Hardly an earring, but your father is fond of it. He nibbles it off my ear every time," she said, "Of course, it's my lot in life to the find one of them, but not the other."

"Where is that earring?" her mother had drawled, scrambling upstairs, her heels clicking on the steps, before she thundered downstairs again.

Molly knew why she had been lingering, why she'd excused herself from meeting Frank with her father, and all because it had been Molly's first time home alone. It was only going to be a few hours, no great loss, but she saw her mother's hesitation as she clipped on her 'missing' earring.

She had been standing frowning at her from the hallway, pulling on her coat as she tutted, "Have I forgotten something else? I feel I've forgotten something. Well, I'm sure I have," she had said loudly, stepping into the kitchen, most likely checking the stove for any switched on burners.

"Mum, I'll be alright," she'd said seated in her dad's chair with her legs tucked underneath her, as Toby - still a kitten - was springing about on the floor, "I've got Toby."

Her mother had reappeared from the kitchen, and had eyed Toby with a great smile, her dimples visible, "I'm sure he is the bravest cat out there, dashing and handsome – like a prince."

"I don't want a prince," Molly had said affronted.

"A king, then?" said her mother slipping on her gloves.

Molly grimaced, "No…"

"Your father is a king, and that makes you a princess – so a prince is the only thing acceptable for us blue bloods."

Molly said rather indignantly, "I will marry a pauper!"

"I hope with great love?"

"Yes!"

"Good, then it is alright. I shall sway your father with my…Molly – are you entirely alright on your own? Since I can get Mrs Bellamy from next door-,"

"But she smells of fish-,"

"I don't think Toby would mind, actually I think he'd appreciate it."

"But you'll only be gone for a few hours."

"Less then that if I have any say in it, I will most likely come running back here again," she said giving her a kiss on her cheek, "Now, you behave – _oh_ – of course you will." She gave her another kiss at which Molly giggled, "Fine, fine, I shall go, I'll take a hint and leave you to your beloved book."

She had pressed another kiss on her face, giving her one last tender look, and left. Molly had not thought she would recount the red lipstick on her mother's lips, or the dark blue dress she wore, with a pair of pearls around her neck. She did not know that the small details, insignificant they would have been if it had been an ordinary day - would stay etched in her memory until her last breath. Yet she had almost forgotten it, like it had taken a second seat to another person taking a more prominent part in her life. She felt guilty, for some time she had been cursing the idea of her having to be without her Professor, when she realised how very alone her father would be if she left.

Christmas was not a cheerful holiday for the pair of them, it was quite the opposite, but they did their best. She tried so very hard to wrench him out of his gloom, to clear up his mind every chance she got, but it was difficult when the days were sprinting towards them.

If someone had been 'Christmas' it had been her mother. It was not the well-decorated Christmas tree, or the soft music from the wireless playing, but her way of executing all of those things. She made the little things seem significant, her laugh brighter and her mood cheerful. She would bring in the warmth, the heart that the holidays would have otherwise lacked, re-telling stories of her brothers, "You would have adored your Uncle Mike. He had such an interest for science. We were certain he'd become a doctor, but…people get…lost."

Here she had been sullen because she wouldn't have a chance to leave her father during 'Christmas'. It was a terrible concept. One that brought forth quite a great deal of shame.

Molly stared openly at her breakfast – the porridge barely touched – her spoon dipping into it once in a while. He had been talking, nattering on about everything under the sky, while she was the very picture of gloom, unable to play happy.

She didn't have the strength to do so, like he was. To pretend he liked spending Christmas like this – that he wouldn't get a few drinks, and she'd most likely either help him into his bed, or leave a blanket on him during the night. He didn't like speaking of it, never soberly, as if he expected her to return – 'I thought she was just late, she was always…late."

Regularly she'd be slightly enthused to have time to read, as she'd have most of her work over the holiday already done just to have leisure time at all. Now however she would rather be occupied with essays to write, calculations to make, and chores to be done, as the idea of celebrating Christmas was beyond melancholy this year.

Food was the last thing she wanted to consume, picking at her breakfast, her spoon still dripping of porridge. He'd been eyeing her once in a while, almost thinking aloud by the look on his face, his brows knitting and separating, "You know then?" he said grimacing.

Molly blinked at that, for it sounded like a sentence she would herself say in the future, "What?" she said, as a huge glop of porridge slipped off her spoon and dropped into the bowl.

"You've probably noticed I've been…moping about in the house for a bit now. Well, obviously it's because work has been a bit difficult lately, but I've just got offered something that will make it easier for us, for a while at least."

"Oh?"

"Except I've got to work Christmas," he said pushing his bowl away, which she noted he'd emptied, though his had less food than hers to begin with.

He was making sacrifices for her, small ones that she didn't notice, because she was too busy being an idiot. If he knew, he'd certainly be disappointed in her.

"You don't – you don't need-," she said shaking her head, but his brows furrowed in return.

"If I don't, we'll be in a heap of trouble, Molly," he said, and his expression was dark, while his rough large hands were pressed together.

"Dad-,"

"I want you to go to a proper university when you get older, and city boys won't be ashamed of you…"

"Honestly, dad."

"You haven't had that Jim over, and neither have you left the house to see him. So, I suspect that's off then," he said, "Are you alright?"

"Jim?" she said confused for a second, "Oh – no – we're – we're alright, and dad it's OK, I don't need to go to-,"

"You _do _– end of discussion – now eat your porridge – I've already set it up with your granny so you can stay with her while I'm working. I know it isn't ideal, but I can't let you spend time alone during Christmas."

"You don't need to work, dad. You never work Christmas."

"Well, this year I've got to, and we'll just pretend we've had one of our big suppers when I return. You're probably too old to be sitting at home with me anyway."

"No, I'm not, honestly!" she protested. She didn't want him far away, not like this, never like this, as she knew he would be sad when he thought she couldn't see him. She didn't want him to be sad, but she knew he was. She knew how useless he tended to feel, like he couldn't give her everything, and she didn't want him to feel like that. She certainly didn't deserve what he tried to give her.

"Molly, please - just let me do this," he said, his eyes dropping down to the table, and it was obvious he wasn't going to give the idea up.

She didn't want him to work like this, especially now when she knew he was a mess, "Are you going to be okay?" she asked quietly, and she watched him take a breath at that.

"I'll – I'll be fine – Frank's coming with me," he said with a slight laugh, but she knew he was lying.

He wanted her to be happy, but she couldn't when he wasn't.

In some ways she did the same as him, played the same game, "Well, okay then," she said with a brief smile, before she forced the cold porridge down her throat.

* * *

Crawling out of bed, sleep barely driven out of her eyes, she noted that her father had already packed. He didn't want a long goodbye, though she saw the way his eyes lingered on her, his expression stoic, as he gave her an once-over. "I can't drive you to your granny's – _so _– I suspect you'll have to use what little money she's given you for the tube, then," he said jamming his woolly hat on his head, putting on a brave smile.

Toby was jumping at her knees; she gave him a tiny distracted scratch behind the ears, as she followed her father to the door. It felt strange in a way, though she kept her mouth shut, as she saw him carry the duffle bag over his shoulder. Right after her mother had died she had concerns with him leaving the house, always anxious for his return, wondering if some horrible faith would await him if he left her. She'd blamed herself that day, and she certainly blamed herself for his leaving now.

He grabbed her to him, the hug briefer than she would have thought, "Right, then," he said pulling back, "Merry Christmas."

She could feel the prickle at her eyes, which she ignored trying to mimic his face, "I'll be ok," she said.

By some luck the telephone went off when she thought the tears would drop, "You better get that, it's probably your granny checking if everything's all right," he said jerking his head, and Molly ran along with Toby at her tail.

She grabbed the receiver and pressed it to her ear, "Hello-," she said smiling at her father, "Yes, I'll accept the call."

"Hello – it's Annabelle, hope I'm not reaching you too late Molly? Your father hasn't left, has he?" said the familiar voice of her grandmother's maid.

"No, not yet – he's on his way out-,"

"Oh that's good - you see your granny's not feeling well-," and at that point Molly did not feel well either. Her eyes darted towards her father who she knew wouldn't leave if she was alone, and whom she knew didn't want to bring her along on such a trip. He needed the work, she knew it, " – so – we wondered if it's alright for you – if he stays home? Since I don't think she's in a fit state for you to come over."

"Oh…well, that's fine," said Molly adopting the tone and expression of someone who was pleased by the news, instead of gutted.

"You're sure?" said Annabelle sounding delighted, "Oh, that's wonderful news! Well – I hope you both have a lovely Christmas!"

"You too," said Molly, before hanging up the receiver, as her father looked at her expectantly.

"Everything's alright, then?"

"Oh, they just wanted me to show up in the afternoon. That means I'll get to sleep a bit longer."

"Looks like you've slept enough now, honestly – you used to wake up so early when -," he stopped at that, a slight tremble starting at his lips. "Well – I think I best be going, before it starts to get dark again."

He gave her a whiskery kiss on the forehead, sweeping her into another much more crushing hug, which she leant into properly. She didn't want him to go, though she knew he needed to. In some ways the house was poison. It had her mother written all over it, and even the few baubles they would have on the Christmas tree were hers (one Christmas one of them had been broken, and he'd shouted at her - first and last time that happened).

* * *

Molly leapt underneath the covers of her bed, wallowing in the warm sheets, wondering how on earth she'd make do. She only had a few pounds left. There was barely a scrape of butter in the cupboard, and she certainly only had 'one' trip she could afford. An alternative had presented itself long ago, already when she'd lied on the telephone, and she felt even worse by the sheer volume of the idea. This was exactly what she had wanted, but at what price?

* * *

She approached the building cautiously, half-shivering with Toby in her arms meowing loudly in displeasure.

Toby certainly didn't like the change of scenery.

He was an indoor cat and wasn't accustomed to the unexpected sound of traffic either, so the journey with him in the train had been especially trying. She had almost wanted to drop him right then and there, especially when he'd almost clawed his way out of her arms.

Molly regretted the very second she'd gotten on the train, almost sprinting off, intending to live off some spare cat-food they had for Toby instead of subjecting herself to something that most likely would end with him not being home.

She had tried ringing, but she had received no answer on the phone, so there she was across the street from 221B.

To her utter shock the door sprang open, a sandy haired man stormed out with an aggravated expression on his face, his glasses fogging up due to the cold. It was his friend John who she hadn't seen in months, wheeling around to face – _her professor_ who looked utterly dishevelled standing in the doorway.

"You're not getting anywhere with this, Sherlock -," she heard Doctor Watson snap quite loudly from where she stood, " – it's been almost three years - you've just got to let it go."

She couldn't catch what Sherlock was saying at all, his voice kept to a low octave, but luckily he hadn't spotted her quite yet. Toby she held in front of her face, peering through his fur, as she stared at the scene curiously.

"But you're going to spend your Christmas alone –," she didn't catch the rest, as a car drove past in the street – the engine drowning out their conversation.

"It's fine, John!" Sherlock spat, and she wasn't the only one who jumped when the door was slammed shut.

Doctor Watson's hand hovered in front of the door for a while, before he dropped his shoulders an inch, and walked off looking very grim.

"Oh," mouthed Molly wondering what the whole scene was about. She'd never seen Professor Holmes so irritated before, his anger in class was nothing compared to this behaviour. Neither had she ever seen him so imperfect with his hair rather wild, wearing only his dark blue robe.

It took her several minutes of pacing, as she reluctantly had to admit that he was in some way her 'last resort'. She could argue her way into her granny's, but she'd spent a Christmas there, and it was by far the worst. _But_ spending the holidays with Professor Holmes, while he was in a mood, was certainly not meeting her ideal.

There was no way around it however, so she finally crossed the street, and rang the doorbell rather hesitantly.

She expected silence in return.

Perhaps his mood was so fowl he'd never appear, but the door was yanked open. Molly took a startled step backwards, meeting his aggravated stare that turned into surprise, as Toby proceeded to leap out of her arms and scuttle past him.

Instead of running after her cat, which was her initial instinct, she stood awkwardly in silence for a few seconds aware that he was staring at her. His eyes flickered over her from head to toe, like he was reading her, and it didn't ease her at all.

"Hello," she said giving a tiny wave, as she saw his brows connect and follow after her cat that started up the steps.

Soon enough his eyes were on her again, causing her to stumble in her words, "Err – _hi _ - you see – I was-," she said feeling nervous, which she shouldn't feel, but the display of his dour mood had dampened her spirits.

He wasn't giving off a welcoming air either, and she felt irritated by this, as their previous goodbye had been the very essence of sweet.

"Packed to stay at your family," he said eyeing the large bag by her feet, stuffed to the brim with clothes.

She glanced down at it, hurriedly bringing her eyes up again, "- But gran was ill, and dad's outside London," she continued, hoping he'd allow her to stay, despite not doing _Christmas._

She also hoped that if she talked quickly enough, instead of asking how he'd known about her intended stay - he'd let her in.

The grim expression of interest dissolved on his face, as he stepped aside letting her in, "I'm in the middle of some work," he said distractingly, soon bounding up the steps with his long legs.

Molly didn't know whether to take that as a yes or no. She had just seen him have an argument, but he didn't seem at all phased by it. Though he had apparently expected the return of his friend, but she didn't know how much a friend Doctor Watson was to him now.

"You're marking papers?" she said as she shifted off her coat, eyeing him curiously.

"No," he said stopping up at the top of the steps, "Those I finished yesterday." He said it, as if it was obvious, "It's just an experiment…" His words dissolved the second they heard a loud bang from upstairs, and he sneered, "Your _cat_." He sprang up the rest of the steps, while she stared after him in astonishment. If she'd known he'd been in this foul mood she'd rather have stayed at home really, despite not wanting to be alone.

Following him upstairs with her bag in hand, she became aware of the general untidy mess in the flat, and the mysterious smoke coming from some peculiar device on the kitchen table.

Toby had, luckily, only toppled over a glass whose contents were spilled over the floor, but he was throwing her cat daggers nonetheless.

"I don't like cats," he said, as he saw her enter the room.

"Sorry, I didn't like the idea of him alone and - _starving_…" she said, wondering where she would be sleeping, or if she was in fact staying at all.

The confidence she had in her idea from the start had disappeared with his aloofness in her showing up on his doorstep. He seemed erratic, completely different from the way she'd become accustomed to, and it was rather unsettling. This wasn't how it was supposed to go, and by some manner of silly thinking – she was convinced that she deserved this.

She had lied and this was her punishment.

If she still believed in God, this was the right moment to start, as it was certain he was subjecting her to these things out of amusement.

"It's fine," he said, though it didn't sound fine at all.

She wondered if had he been prepared he would have received her in a better mood, "I'm sorry…if you want me to go – I'll go," she said, trying not to sound dejected, as she grabbed for Toby on the floor.

He squirmed in her arms, resisting all her advances, and she loathed the idea of having to walk on foot just because her Professor was having a 'mood'. She was not the one who'd wrong-footed him, whatever his supposed friend had insinuated to make him revert into this state.

He was seated at the kitchen table, head turned toward her, expression gradually softening, "Molly – it's fine -," he said, "I didn't expect you. That is all. You are welcome to the upstairs bedroom, if you wish. There is a good enough bed there if you want some rest."

"Oh," she said.

She didn't want to sound baffled by the news, but she was. After all they'd been through she hardly expected him to ship her off to the_ spar_e bedroom.

"Oh?" he repeated looking at her now, smirking, "Drop your things in my bedroom, then. The cat stays here."

He was playing with her, which tore her between irritation and amusement, but still she answered him with a bright cheery voice, "I'll sleep upstairs."

He tried to seem unaffected by this news, she saw that, but she also caught a brief twitch of the muscle in his jaw.

With a smile she escaped up the steps, disturbing a room that was tidier than the rest of the flat, and even had new linen on the bed. It didn't look like it had been used, neither did anything in the room give away details about the former occupant, but she had a sneaking feeling about who had once occupied the room.

No old trinkets seemed to have been left behind, no matter how much she disturbed the desk, which had the odd paper in it, but then she found a journal with _J. Watson _written on it. Instantly she was taken over with curiosity.

Here perhaps were the answers, all of them, or maybe none.

She briefly glanced through the pages; all of them were filled up. She knew she shouldn't be sneaking a look into another man's journal, a man she especially didn't know, and she almost reluctantly set it back in the drawer, before she brought it up again.

Taking it to the bed, she found herself rifling through the pages, which were filled with stories of 'cases', besides the odd note, "_He might know a great deal of things, but he honestly didn't know that the earth revolves around the sun. Not the other way around! He can be spectacularly ignorant about things, despite being so obviously smug about everything he does know."_

She stopped reading when she found herself laughing loudly at John Watson's description of her dear Professor, as she knew it was abundantly rude. Somehow, at least now she knew more, even if she only saw small glimpses of it – _the science of deduction._

Molly didn't know how long she'd been reading, finding about _the hound_, and about a woman who John seemed to be particularly poetic about, overdetailing every movement made by her. Yet, despite knowing more about the Professor, she still felt the 'portrait' wasn't at all alike the man she'd come to know.

More alike the man she had just met downstairs, grumpy and unpredictable, though perhaps he was just milder around her.

She knew not what to make of it, especially when the diary seemed to tell of his ability to pretend. She feared for a second he was doing so to her, though she had always prided herself in knowing people, and he did not seem to be like that. He had the same look in his eye that she would find in her father's, some form of sadness, but from some unidentified source.

* * *

When hunger finally crawled into her stomach, she returned downstairs and found him immediately saying at her appearance, "My wallet is on the table. Take some pounds."

She had just intended to ask for food, and here was the answer ready for her, "The cupboards are empty. I don't usually eat in."

"Really?" she said eyeing the fridge in the kitchen, and the multitude of cupboards along the walls.

"Really," he said turning to look at her.

"What do you keep in the fridge then?"

He hesitated a second before he spoke, "Best not tempt fate – take the money, and buy whatever you like."

She eyed the wallet nervously, grasping the leather in her hands, as he nodded towards her, "Go on," he said.

Molly hadn't ever had so much money on her, as there was a thick bundle in his wallet, which astounded her. She found herself half-fumbling in the shops in surprise, buying the less costly versions because she was accustomed to that. Now she was allowed to buy anything, a concept a bit lost to her.

She did not know if that was everything he owned in the world, but depending on the size of his home, and his car – it most likely wasn't. The whole expedition did make her buy a nicer tuna for Toby, because she was certain he was rather disturbed by the change in atmosphere.

* * *

She made dinner upon her return, mildly surprised when the Professor ignored her entirely, and the food for that matter. Two hours past and his dinner remained untouched, but when she decided to tidy it away – his plate was already empty.

For a few minutes she wondered if he'd fed it to Toby, but her cat was still by the windowsill, his bushy ginger tail waving about. "Do you plan to spend your entire holiday here?" said Professor Holmes interrupting her investigation.

He'd finally broken his silence again, which she wasn't entirely sure was a blessing or not, "If that's alright?" she asked.

"It is," he said tinkering with the object on the table, which puffed out more smoke. She was sat in the fumes of the machine for a while, until she finally submitted to cracking a window open out of desperation. He didn't protest, merrily continued on with his work, which she frankly didn't entirely understand.

Neither had John Watson.

The fact that he didn't speak more did not help on her guilt; it only made her too aware that her father would be beyond angry if he knew. She could have borrowed money from her grandmother and stayed home, but she knew her father would have hated that. And the questions that would arise would certainly set doubt upon his skill as her father.

Of course she could have told him, and perhaps he would have mouthed off Annabelle on the phone. Then she would have been stationed in her grandmother's home, maybe without seeing the supposedly ill woman. It wasn't the picture of Christmas she imagined, though she barely had a painted portrait of how that should be.

Christmas wasn't Christmas anymore anyway.

She suspected that came with age, the excitement in opening presents, and spending time lounged about in the house, while her father read loudly from Dickens, all of it was slowly fading away.

At least she had the book with her, sat on her lap, as she settled down into a chair comfortably. The fire was crackling loudly in the hearth, keeping the room warm, "Do you want me to read?" he said making her blink in surprise.

For a second she wondered if he was referring to their _shared_ book, though she knew it couldn't be, since he was looking at hers – _A Christmas Carol._

"Oh, it's alright-," she said abruptly, as she couldn't imagine him doing all the different voices, like her father would.

"Your father reads that every year, doesn't he?"

She looked up at him, "How do you know that?"

"The edition is well-worn, obviously bought from a charity shop. Also, it has a large spot of tea on the cover. You like coffee best, and generally avoid bending the spine too much, as to not sully the copy, unlike your father. You also take care of your books, especially those you borrow."

She stared at the book in her hands, taking in the details – from the tea stain – to the spine, "Oh, right – but how did you know he reads it to me every Christmas?"

"You just told me," he said with a slight smile.

She laughed, letting the book sit on her lap, "So…you deduce, then?"

"You've read John's journal?"

"No," she said quickly.

"It's a beguiling read, despite how _spectacularly ignorant_ he is in some details," he said looking slightly affronted.

"You lived together, then?"

"Yes."

"How come-,"

"He married."

"Right – but – I would have thought-,"

"I would be in the papers, considering those cases?" he said with a raised brow, "No, the press isn't interested in me. Lestrade keeps me out of the public eye – or else he would look like an idiot. They only ever briefly mention my name."

"Lestrade is?"

"The detective inspector I work with most frequently in Scotland Yard."

"You're really a consulting detective?"

"Otherwise John would have a better imagination than I thought."

"How come you became a professor?"

He shifted in his seat, straightening his shoulders, "I got bored," he said, but somehow she knew by his sudden cold demeanour that he was lying. Molly knew it was better not to ask, despite the fact that it seemed unlikely. From what she'd briefly read, being a consulting detective seemed far more exciting than being a professor in English, especially considering the man right now.

He was, according to Watson, studying tobacco ash, so maybe he did enjoy the quiet life after all, with a man-made machine that spouted out fumes.

"But – English?" she asked bewildered, as his eyes turned to her.

"Does it seem so unlikely?"

"Yes," she said slowly, "It's just - you seem annoyed with us most of the time."

"Some of your classmates are dunderheads. I think you are aware of that fact."

She was glad to be excluded from the group of _dunderheads, _her cheeks briefly heating up, "Do you like teaching?"

He took a deep breath, "Yes – Molly – _but_ I am in the middle of an intricate study, and you are disrupting my work."

"Oh - sorry, I'll stop asking," she said quickly bringing up the book again.

"I am referring to your uncrossed legs," he said making her stare at him over her book, her face turning a bright red, as she tucked her feet underneath her.

"Sorry," she mumbled, fortified by her book, as it hid away her growing smile.

He was an odd man, considering his work, and his habits.

She wondered what she was in that equation really.

She truly didn't know how well he worked with others, not really. Whenever she saw him with the other professors, he seemed to put on a 'mask', sometimes even in front of the students.

"Molly," he said, though his voice did not come from the distance of the kitchen, as she felt a hand tug at her book.

There he stood in front of her, a smile at his lips, as he said, "Spread your legs."

She was about to put the book away, "Read," he said, steadying the book in her hands, as she planted her feet on the floor again.

He was soon on his knees in front of her, her breath turning ragged by the second, as his warm hands landed on her knees, skidding upwards, until they were underneath her skirt.

She drew in a breath, "_Read_," he said in a low voice, reprimanding her for her distracted silence.

She cleared her voice, feeling his hands on her thighs, as he started to draw her stocking off, "To say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it had been a stranger from infancy, would be untrue…" She stumbled in her words, swallowing constantly, as he threw aside her stocking, pushing her knees further apart, so she was fully spread in front of him.

Trying to go on, she set her eyes on the page, "But he put his hand upon the key he had relinquished…" His head was burrowed between her legs, his mouth lathering kisses on her inner thighs, dangerously crossing the path of her knickers, as his hot breath tickled her skin.

She licked at her lips; "…turned it sturdily…" she said in a small voice, as he started to pull away her cotton underwear, letting that too fall to the floor, "…walked in…" His hot breath was on her.

Her hands clawed into her book, as she leaned back into the chair, trying to muffle down her moan.

Fingers and tongue teased her moist entrance, "And…and…lighted-," she bucked her hips towards him, his tongue drinking her up.

"His - his…_CANDLE_," she managed to exclaim, much louder than intended, almost gasping in surprise at the volume of her own voice.

His mouth cast her apart, the book entirely forgotten, as he left a tender kiss on her cunt. Soon he hauled himself up on his feet, licking at his lips with a smirk.

"You are quite capable orally, Molly," he said amused, slipping a finger into his mouth sucking on it, before he occupied his seat at the kitchen table again.

Flushed and utterly bothered by the fact that he'd left her a heaving mess, she didn't bother to put on her undergarments, letting them stay curled on the carpet, as she propped up the book grudgingly in her hands.

Dickens would be ruined forever.


End file.
